


Firebreak

by Whreflections



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Claudia Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blowjobs, Dragon Stiles Stilinski, Griffin Rider Chris Argent, M/M, Multi, Non-Human Claudia Stilinski, Phoenix Peter Hale, Polyamory Negotiations, Stetopher Week 2019, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: When Stiles comes to Chris to tell him he's interested in pursuing a relationship with the snarky, brilliant phoenix firefighter he met through his job at the hospital, Chris isn't entirely surprised.  They've been friends for a while, now, and Peter is exactly Stiles' type.After ten years together, he knows Stiles inside and out- it isn't a shock that he's falling for Peter, or a shock that he's capable of considering anyone else.  Stiles has never been less than open with him- but if this is going to work, Chris is going to have to be just as honest with Stiles, and with himself.Some lines are hard to cross, even if those boundaries are self inflicted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...I can almost guarantee typos, I never intended to split this into two pieces, I'm unsure about the title, and I feel like the second chapter is gonna be so much shorter...
> 
> But I loved this concept, and I hope you guys do, too A huge thanks to the steter discord- this wouldn't exist without you ❤️ Extra thanks to MrsRidcully, who was willing to read this and be an awesome cheerleader for me to keep going when I wasn’t sure it was going to work. 💗💗
> 
> I’ll fix as many of those typos as I can tomorrow XD (Edit: Done 😂 and honestly, there weren’t nearly as many as I expected. Sleepy me edited okay lol)
> 
> Along with the fantasy and plot elements that have changed most things already, as an added change, Beacon Hills in this fic is a neighborhood/subsection of Chattanooga, TN. Lookout Mountain is a real place, and it’s beautiful 😍

The scrying crystal that hung suspended over the middle of the table pulsed the low red of waiting, fading so low here and there that the planks of the table fell into shadow, the menu growing hard to read. It wasn’t the red of a sunrise, but misty and too intense, like the unnatural haze of a spellcast fog—it suited Peter’s skin annoyingly well, his eyes even better. The unnatural red-orange flicker of his phoenix eyes didn’t seem quite so out of place, here—their oddity might have been only a trick of the light.

All the same, he was undeniably attractive; Chris would have had to be blind not to see it, and he was far from unobservant. Truth be told, if not for Stiles, he’d have noticed this one on his own.

With Stiles, though, if he’d been the one to meet Peter instead, it wouldn’t likely have gone past noticing. It wasn’t that he’d ceased to find other men attractive since they’d married; he doubted that was true of anyone, but all the drive to pursue had left him. He had what he wanted.

If he had followed his first instinct and brought Stiles to this first meeting with him, beginning might not have felt so daunting. Stiles would have fit easily in the curve of the small corner booth between he and Peter, easing the awkward tension by filling the silence while they waited for a chance to order. The awkward tension before they had drinks to busy their hands, however, was in part exactly what Chris was looking for. If this wasn’t going to be possible, if the awkwardness between the two of them was too great to work through, he needed to know now, before he told Stiles for certain, before Peter agreed.

Before the silent tension could stretch too far, though, Chris cleared his throat. “I appreciate you coming; I know this isn’t the easiest conversation to have, but it has to happen. I don’t have any need for small talk if you don’t; you know why we’re here.”

He had to; Stiles had told him, and Chris had asked for this meeting, but he wanted to hear him say it, wanted to judge how he said it. The devil was always in the details.

“I do. Your husband wants to fuck me—“ Peter said, sitting back in his booth. The strange fire of his eyes glimmered from the shadows, no longer quite so masked with his face further from the light. “I knew that before you asked me to have a drink to talk about it. I knew it before he ever said anything.”

“Does that happen to you often?”

“Fucking or fucking other men’s husbands?”

The crystal between them flared suddenly to a light seafoam, bathing them both in a bright wash of pale color, banishing the shadows from their corner. What Peter saw looking across at him Chris couldn’t say for certain, but whatever it was made him smile. It wasn’t condescending, per se, but it wasn’t exactly benevolent, either.

From inside the crystal, a pixie’s face shimmered into view, caught in its facets. She was barely a suggestion of form, her wings like a brush of air, a flicker of light. “Welcome to The Tempest! Will the two of you be dining with us this evening?”

“Just drinking. I’ll have straight whiskey,” Chris said. Though he wasn’t looking directly, across the table he could see a shift in Peter’s posture, the glance of his eyes over the menu as if he hadn’t already decided.

“St Elmo’s fire, made with vodka and raspberry,” Peter said, musing over each component like it was new, and not a concoction he’d already had in mind. Given that he hadn‘t turned a page, Chris was willing to bet that exotic as it was, for Peter it was a familiar choice. From what Stiles had told him, Peter didn’t deprive himself from luxuries. 

As quick as it had come, the seafoam light faded to a deeper jungle green, leaving them largely in the dark. With a deep breath, Chris continued their conversation like he hadn’t stopped, like Peter hadn’t goaded him.

“I’ll assume the answer is no—“

“Assume what you want.”

“—which means you know Stiles well enough to predict him with at least some measure of accuracy. That doesn’t surprise me; I know you two have been friends since he started working emergency again—“ Peter’s nod was confirmation he didn’t need. Chris pressed on. “—so if you know him well enough to know that he was into you, that means you know him well enough to know that if this doesn’t go well? Nothing’s happening. If he hadn’t talked to me about it first, he never would have made a move. He wouldn’t have said a thing to you about it.”

“Are you asking me if I’m sure about that, or asking yourself if you are?” It wasn’t a jab, not really; it wasn’t hard enough—and still, a muscle in Chris’ jaw jumped.

“I’m not asking anything; I’m telling. I trust my husband. If this is going anywhere, that’s something that you need to understand. Even if this happens with the two of you, nothing between Stiles and I is going to change.” He wasn’t asking, really he wasn’t, and still it eased something in his chest to say it, and realize the truth of it all over again in hearing it aloud. He did trust Stiles. Stiles had never cheated on him, not once in all the time they’d been together. He was sure of that, as sure as he was that if he’d reacted with any deep concern years ago when Stiles had mentioned being interested in the possibility of polyamory, Stiles would have set that possibility aside. He had the ability to open his heart wide enough to fit more than one man, but he had already by then offered that heart to Chris. He wouldn’t have taken it back, not even if it meant closing off a part of himself, unexplored. 

He would have done it even now if Chris had asked, but Chris didn’t want to ask it. Stiles had trusted him with a truth that could have damaged their marriage, if it hadn’t been strong enough to bear it—arguably, most men would find it hard to swallow that their husband was thinking about someone else, fantasizing not just about another man’s body but how he might look asleep in the middle of the night, how his laugh would sound startled out of him on a lazy afternoon, what song he hummed when he cooked.

If he was honest, utterly, it wasn’t easy for him to swallow, either. It stuck in his throat like a rock, but he was determined he could work it down. Stiles was thinking about Peter, sure, but Stiles hadn’t been distant with Chris. Nothing had changed. There was nothing wrong between the two of them; Stiles didn’t feel neglected, and he didn’t feel smothered. This wasn’t the result of anything Chris hadn’t done; there was nothing for him to fix. It wasn’t less of him or more of him that Stiles wanted, just an utterly separate addition. Multiplication, perhaps, was the better term.

Across the table, Peter tilted his head, his hum uncertain. “That’s not exactly true, though, is it? Not that I’m saying I think he’d leave you or that he has any intention of it, but relationships change all the time. Age changes them; our own development changes them. I don’t see any possibility that adding a second relationship to his life wouldn’t change yours in any way.” 

His calm was grating—there was a reason Chris had wanted to do this with a drink in his hand. “And what changes do you think those would be?”

“Oh, I have no idea; I just don’t think it’s realistic to say there wouldn’t be any—and you said yourself, we need to have realistic expectations. I fully expect that there’s a decent chance you’ll go home and tell Stiles you don’t want him talking to me—in which case I expect I’ll be losing a friend, or gaining a secret.”

“I don’t tell Stiles who he can be friends with,” Chris said, sharper than he intended. He didn’t want to let himself be riled—he didn’t want Peter to be right, either. Stiles saw something in this man. If he could keep his eyes open and see enough of it for himself, maybe he’d understand what that something was. 

Peter held up a hand, a non-verbal apology backed by nothing but a slight tip of his chin. “I’m sure you don’t—but if you decide against agreeing to anything more between Stiles and I, I doubt either one of you is going to feel comfortable with him spending time with me. We’re all weighing options, here; it isn’t just you. I care about Stiles.” Peter’s voice when he said his name was warm, curling around it like a curve of clinging vine. “I could lose a friend in every direction; that’s a risk I want to minimize.”

_Yeah, and I could lose my husband. _

The thought wasn’t even one he believed, not really, but the there-and-gone flicker of it through his consciousness was almost enough to make him grimace. His lip twitched, he was sure of it, but then the pixie woman was arriving with their drinks, and he was, for the moment, off the hook. 

Her butterfly wings were folded tight against her back, the very tips fluttering in the breeze of patrons squeezing through the aisle behind her as she balanced their tray, setting down first his whiskey, then Peter’s cocktail. It was absurdly ostentatious, the fairy fire limning the edges of the glass a rich pink that matched the iced raspberries magically suspended in the vodka. The chill of frost could still be seen on their sides. The entire effect was ridiculous, but it was, supposedly, a delicacy, if you could taste the magic—

Or if you wanted to share an image of yourself drinking it, and lend yourself the appearance of exotic tastes. 

Peter made no move to reach for either a phone or spell bag, however, only sipping and closing his eyes, as if the flame and alcohol and magic on his tongue brought a shiver down his spine. Maybe it had. 

Chris took a long drink. 

“I know you care about Stiles,” Chris said, once he’d gathered himself to try again. “If I didn’t think that was true from what he’s told me about you, I wouldn’t have considered this. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“On that we can agree.”

“Hopefully on more than that.” Chris’ fingers flexed around the glass, resisting the urge for another sip before he asked. “I know what Stiles is looking for, but what would you be interested in? You said he wanted to fuck you; you’re not wrong. Is that all you want? Fuck him, and go back to being friends?”

“I want what I can have. If that’s an evening with him, I’ll take it. If he wants a relationship—“ Peter’s mouth closed over the fire on his glass as he shrugged. Anyone could have done it with fairy fire, anyone at all—but with his eyes, with what he was, the effect was different. It was nearly as enchanting as the first time he’d seen Stiles’ eyes go copper, the tips of his fangs pointing needle sharp in his eagerness. Chris had brought him a mug back from Morocco, a first offering to begin a collection. For a dragon, tangibility was paramount. He could tell Stiles he loved him a hundred times, but those repetitions wouldn’t be quite as effective as giving him time to wander through the house and lay his hands on everything Chris had given him over the years they’d been together. He drank in more from the skim of fingertips along the keys of a secondhand Casio bought at a yard sale on their second date than some people took from daily affirmations. 

The fire in Peter’s eyes didn’t make his heart skip the way pleasing Stiles did, but he did feel something, looking at him. Even if it was only curiosity, that wasn’t worthless. 

Peter sat the glass down. “If he was single, I’d have asked him out already. Of course I’d be interested in a relationship; did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Honestly? I don't know you from Adam. I know what Stiles has told me—and that’s been quite a bit, but he likes you.”

“You think he’s biased.”

“I think Stiles would tell anyone his dad’s the best sheriff on the east coast and make me sound like a superhero. John’s a good man and I’m proud to work with him, but he’s no superstar—and neither am I.” 

Peter’s laughter sounded real, and surprisingly soft. It brought a lightness to his face that Chris wouldn’t have expected, though it suited him well. “He does make you sound like a comic book character. Captain Argent and his griffin—I’ve heard plenty about you, too, you know. He talks about you all the time.”

If anyone had asked Chris before this meeting, he would have said he was certain Stiles talked about him—and still, it was nice to hear it, from Peter perhaps more than it would have been to hear it from anyone. 

“Whatever you’ve heard, most of it was Aria. I just hold on.”

“That’s not how he tells it,” Peter said. He leaned forward, his arms in line with the planks of the table, deep green light dancing over his skin. Between his wrists, the flickering pink of the fairy fire on his drink was already burning lower. “You were blunt with me; I’ll do the same for you, so trust me when I say I’m well aware this isn’t a competition. If it was, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Stiles thinks you could solve anything, rescue anyone. He’s desperately in love with you, and you are _his_. I’ve found it’s always easier to explain the supernatural to fellow members of the supernatural, but I would hope by now that you've come to understand how important possession is to a dragon.” Peter paused, though the intensity in his gaze seemed too heavy for Chris to speak. 

Chris held his tongue, and let it settle. 

“You belong to him. Anything that threatens that won’t be tolerated. If he decides I’m a threat to the grip he has on you, as sweet and unassuming as he seems I am well aware he isn’t incapable of skinning me with his teeth. If he isn’t big enough to manage it now, he has all the time in the world, and dragons don’t forget. I’d be looking over my shoulder for him for the rest of my very long life—I have no intentions of posing any threat to you; that’s mostly just self-preservation and common sense.” 

“Mostly?” Chris couldn’t help but ask, but there was a smile in his tone when he said it. Nothing Peter said had sounded like a lie, and Peter wasn't wrong- he _had_ been around Stiles plenty long enough to realize that of all the things he'd collected, none was as important to him as Chris. John had told him, once, that he could still wake up sometimes to find Claudia looking at him with the particular preening glimmer in her amethyst eyes that she usually reserved for something shiny. Decades together, and she still looked at him like at prize. 

“Even without the risk of painful death, I’m not interested in breaking up anyone’s marriage, or being anyone’s secret," Peter said. "It doesn't end well for anyone involved." 

Undoubtedly, he would know—from what Stiles had told him, Peter was part of the Hale pack, in another life. When he hadn't turned as a boy, he'd been told he was human. It wasn't until the fire that killed most of his family that he'd touched flames for the first time, and transformed into something else entirely. 

Phoenix genes didn’t skip generations; they weren’t recessive. Lineage was direct, without exception. The father he'd grown up with couldn't have been his father at all, but the truth was likely forever lost to him, buried with his mother. It was a hell of a thing to live through, and it couldn't be unrelated to his feelings—but now hardly seemed the polite time to bring it up. 

Instead, Chris only nodded, and downed the last of his whiskey. The light of the crystal caught in the glass as he turned it, casting it back against his fingers. He had told himself that when it came to it, when he sat down and talked to Peter, the answer he would give would come from his gut. If he looked at the man and could barely hold the urge to punch him, there wouldn’t be any arrangement they could find that would work, long term.

He had to be able to look at Peter’s hands, and imagine them on Stiles, and not want to break them. He had to be able to hold the thought of sharing his husband in his mind, and not feel suffocated by it. 

Peter was a beautiful man. He was charming, sharp witted and sharp tongued. He could keep up with Stiles, no doubt, and he was sure Stiles liked that. He was, also, like Stiles in ways that Chris could never be. Being the mate of a dragon would grant him astoundingly long life by human standards, but it couldn't change what he was. Under the bolster of Stiles' magic that threaded through him like gossamer, strong and unseen, he was still just a man. He had no sense for magic; he never had—he couldn't even perform the simplest spells.

Stiles’ love would give him centuries, and he couldn’t even feel his husband’s magic in his own body.

Peter's affinity for magic, on the other hand, was in his very blood; he was practically made of it. He could tame fire; he carried it within him. He was likely immune to Stiles’ venom—for all Chris knew, he could probably craft a potion with it. The two of them could connect to something that Chris was forever on the other side of, a veil he could only touch without parting. 

Looking at Peter, he couldn't say the urge to punch him wasn't present, but it wasn't irresistible. It was, honestly, much easier to quiet than he'd expected. 

"If you hurt him, you don't have to worry about Stiles. I don't care how many lives you have," Chris said, low and soft. It wasn't bravado, or a token protest. If this was going to work, Peter had to understand that he could be dangerous, too. 

"I wouldn't expect any less." The hint of humor on his voice didn't sound mocking, though he didn't look worried, either. In a smooth motion, he tipped his drink back enough to pop both remaining iced raspberries into his mouth. His throat when he swallowed looked thick, muscled. 

Half conscious of it, Chris licked his lips. "How this starts if it starts at all is on my terms; Stiles already agreed to that."

"As did I, or we wouldn't be here."

"I'm just saying, if I offer something, you don't have to take it, but—“ 

"But the offer won't change. I get it." Across the table, Peter leaned closer. For the first time, Chris could see something of the bird of prey in him, a tilt to his head that reminded him of Aria. "Do you have an offer?"

"I don't know if I'm okay with this. I want to be, but it's a lot to ask." It was more honest than he'd meant to be, but, perhaps, exactly as honest as he should be. Peter didn't look surprised. 

"It is. Humans aren't quite as monogamous as some creatures, but you're fairly set in your ways. Change isn't easy for you."

"I can handle change just fine." Change was progress, a new saddle or a new security system. Change didn't cover the thought of another man being granted the intimacy of seeing Stiles on a late summer afternoon, shifted and sleepy, stretching his wings out toward the edge of the bed like feelers chasing the slow creep of the sun. 

"Is the answer no, then?" Peter's voice was annoyingly light, too soft, so reasonable it made Chris feel unreasonable. 

"I didn't say that," Chris countered, a little too hard. With a breath to steady his nerves, he tried again. "I didn't say that. It's not no, it's just—no dating yet. Before that happens, I need to be sure—“ The truth of all that he wanted to be sure of was too immense, and the words clogged his throat. He sighed to clear them, and shook his head. "I know this is backwards, but you two are already friends so I don't think it's out of the question. It's not like you don't already know each other well. You’re not strangers, and you know you’d both want more from each other—and you know where you’re both willing to take it. You said it yourself, you would have already if not for me.” 

Peter’s noise was one of curious understanding. "Start with sex, and work our way back to dating, is that it?"

"Maybe. Maybe to dating, if it goes well." If he could handle seeing the two of them together; if he could be sure of how Peter would treat Stiles. There were many ifs, all suspended, hanging unknowns. "That's my offer. Come over next weekend, and spend the night. Not just with Stiles; the first time at least I want to be there. What exactly it’ll entail and how involved I’ll be—“ His gesture clarified nothing but his own uncertainty. “We'll see what happens."

"Any specific plans? Anything off limits?"

"I think we need to just see how it goes." There was too much in the air, too much uncertainty. He didn't want to tell Peter now that Stiles couldn't fuck him, only to find out once they were together that really, he wouldn't mind. He didn't want to make him any promises he couldn't keep, either. "I'm sorry; I know that's vague, but until it's happening—“

"Until it's happening, it's all theory. An imprecise science, like meteorology." Peter's eyes cast over him, lingering at the collar of his shirt, the curve of his wrist that bore the leather bracelet Stiles had given him for their third anniversary. Bound to the top was a piece of turquoise Stiles had had since he was a boy, hoarded back for a future use until he knew what to do with it, until he met Chris, and the color reminded him of his eyes. His work had taught him how to prepare for unknown dangers, but it was life with Stiles that was teaching him it wasn’t impossible to prepare for unknown delights, too.

Despite Chris’ lingering reticence, Peter didn’t seem deterred. "And if all does work out? Have you thought about what that might look like? You, and I, and Stiles—“ Peter paused, significance in his glance and his silence. "Or Stiles and I, and you and Stiles?"

It was, in a way, even stranger than considering Stiles being with someone else. He'd never thought of it for himself, really—but he couldn't deny that, logistically, it might be the easiest if he did consider it. It might even be natural, after a few months. A few years, if he moved slow. They had the time.

The future was wholly imprecise.

Chris sat back, leaning into the dark, his arm stretching out along the empty span of the top of the booth. "I don't know. I never would have sought anyone else out, for myself—but is it impossible that might be where we end up? No, I don't think it is. Do you?"

Peter's smile was all predator—it reminded Chris of Stiles, but not in a way that unsettled him.

"Oh, I think almost anything is possible." Peter covered his glass quick with the palm of his hand, and the last of the fairy fire went out. As soon as it had, he pressed his palm to the crystal, just long enough for it to flare, then drew it back. He spoke before their waitress had even answered, nothing yet stirring in the suddenly seafoam facets. "Another round, and give my friend better whiskey. He could use a stronger drink."

In another tone, it could have been irritating. It could have gotten his back up, if he let it. Instead, Chris chose to laugh.

+++++++

As a means of transportation, Aria wasn't always practical. There were few people in the world Chris would have admitted that to—Stiles was one of them. He hadn't only admitted it, they'd discussed it—how it was easier, around town, to use a car when he wasn't working, how long distances weren't comfortable or ideal for either of them. She was perfect for work, and outside of those hours he appreciated the bonding opportunities and moments of silence provided by spending time in the air with her. There were, however, plenty of situations where he could navigate the city far better on his own.

Other times, Aria was entirely practical, and exactly what he needed. Leaving The Tempest still drunk was absolutely one of those times. Without Aria, he'd have had to call Stiles for a ride, or go to the trouble of summoning one for himself. With Aria, it didn't matter that he was just on the wrong side of too fuzzy to be sure of the way home. She could have taken him in her sleep. 

The October air was cool, downright cold higher up and under the silky cover of night, but Chris didn't mind. He had been riding long enough to dress for it, prepared to feel a hint of the bite even through the thick black leather of his jacket. With the alcohol still buzzing in his veins, even that expected bite couldn't quite reach him; he felt nothing but warm. The only place where the chill seemed to just barely touch was the smallest sliver of skin at his wrists, exposed between his coat and bracelet, and the point where his fingers disappeared into the dense, rich white feathers of Aria’s shoulders. 

With his mind full and no chill to hurry him home, Chris nudged Aria a little off track, let her circle the preserve before she brought him back over the lights of the city, past them again, toward the looming shadow of the mountain and the house tucked back into the trees. 

It was still Claudia’s mountain, and likely would be for several hundred years more- someday, Stiles might want his own, but he was far too young of a dragon, yet, for that kind of independence to become a need. He was, by the measure of his own kind, little more than a juvenile. He was an adult, yes, and had been since before Chris met him, but held up against the innumerable years before him, there could be no doubt that he was still an adolescent. He had so much ahead of him, and already he’d made a decision some dragons never did. 

Already, he’d chosen a mate he intended to keep. 

Aria came down in a spiral, tucking her dove grey wings back to cradle Chris’ legs against her sides and ease the landing. Her panther feet touching down in the courtyard barely made a thud. The silence around them was broken only by the fountain in the middle of the circular drive out front, distant and bubbling in the dark. Stiles had left the porch light on; Chris could see it shining around the edge of the house- and the lights in the back, flooding the courtyard, and the lights on the balcony by their room. It wasn’t until he realized the lights in the kitchen and hall were on, too, that Chris realized just how late it might be, how far they’d flown- when he had left The Tempest, it was late enough already. 

With a sigh, Chris slid to the ground, reaching behind him as he did to unfasten the saddle, and let it fall. Aria shook herself, the stark line of white and black where feather met fur blurring for a moment as she fluffed herself. The stretch of her wings knocked his shoulder, and Chris laughed, already reaching for her halter. 

“I know, sweetheart; I know. Just give me a minute.” She was so very patient with him, under most conditions, but the minute he started removing tack, she wanted every inch of it off, instantaneously. His fingers were a little slow from the buzz, enough that she nipped good naturedly at his shoulder as he finished the buckle on her halter. It was light, easy- he could feel the sharp curve of her sea eagle’s beak skimming over his skin without breaking it. 

When he’d learned to ride, he’d learned discipline with it. You could judge a man fairly well by how he cared for his mount, and how he cared for his equipment. The door to her loft was open in the barn behind the house, and he’d checked before he left to ensure she’d be ready to bed down when she chose. She was taken care of, and that left only the tack. If he’d been coming in after work, or after a ride for their own reasons, he’d have taken the time to check it over, and put it away. The motions were so familiar they were almost soothing- checking buckles, oiling leather, folding cord. 

At the moment, he didn’t have the patience, or the time. You could judge a man on how he cared for his husband, too. 

Chris carried the tack far enough to drop in his office in the barn, and left it there without turning on a light. By the time he walked back out into the courtyard, Aria was already gone, though he could feel the stir in the air where she’d just taken off, catch the ghost of her warm and earthy not-quite bird scent. If he’d looked up, he might have seen her disappearing into the trees, or gaining height over the tips of their branches, but he wasn’t concerned. This was her time, and her land. She wasn’t in danger out there. 

He wasn’t in danger, either, not as such, but there had been a strange unreality that clung to the entire evening, and lingered still. He was coming home late, not from a night with John or his friends from the station, but from a man who wanted to date his husband. Peter wanted to get his hands on Stiles, and Chris hadn’t decked him— he'd had four rounds with him. 

As quiet as Chris moved through the house, he could hear the rustle of the animals marking his passage, here and there, though it didn’t matter. They were caged, and it was past time they slept. He turned out the lights Stiles had left on as he passed, settling the house into darkness around him, his eyes adjusting fresh to each change. He knew it so well it hardly slowed him, even drunk—though his foot did snag a little on the top step, where the overhang was a little further than it should have been. Normally, he remembered to account for it, but it made his steps on the landing heavier. If Stiles hadn’t already known he was coming, he would, then. 

Opening the door to their room, the sound of its creak wasn’t enough to cover Stiles heavy exhale, so blatantly full of relief that Chris felt like an ass. The time with Peter had given him a feel for the man, and he’d appreciated the time in the air to think, but he hadn’t meant to make this harder on Stiles than it was already. It wasn’t meant to feel like a punishment. 

“Chris—” Stiles hovered, hands up like he meant to try and take his coat, though Chris was still wearing it, and Stiles didn’t reach for it. Instead, he let his hands fall. ”I thought you’d tell me when you left? I mean, it’s fine, but Peter said—“

The huff of laughter that startled out of him wasn’t unfriendly, but it had an edge. Blunted, but present. ”You talked to Peter already?” 

“I—yeah, just for a few minutes. He said you two had talked, and you were coming home. He said it went okay.” There wasn’t supposed to be a question there, Chris could tell, but Stiles‘ voice turned up all the same. 

“Yeah. It went okay,” Chris said. He held his hand out, and Stiles took it with an eagerness that hurt. Pulling Stiles in against his chest soothed it, but a hint of the ache remained, throbbing at the edges. For all that he was, Stiles always felt so incongruously small against him. In either form he was deadly, but the wyvern form he took would keep growing until someday he wouldn’t be able to curl around Chris like a boa. Someday, Chris would be able to ride him as easily as he rode Aria- and even then, Chris would be willing to bet that in his human form, Stiles would still hide his face against his throat, still shrink in and make himself small like Chris could wrap his jacket around his back and shield them both from the world. 

He'd be willing to bet, even if all he was betting on was hope. Change was inevitable, even for human relationships- you made your choice, and hoped that who you would become in 20 years would still be compatible with who your partner would be. When the mix was right, you fell in love all over again, in every incarnation. Loving a dragon, it was easy to joke that it was lucky they weren’t too keen on change- and that wasn’t wrong, not entirely. They might fight it more than most, and find more joy in preservation, but even Stiles would change, given enough time. 

Whoever he became, if Chris could change just enough to stay the safest place he knew, he wouldn’t ask for anything else. He wasn’t a man of prayer, not really, but that want lingered in the back of his throat with a burn that almost made him want to find a shrine, and pay his respects. 

Chris breathed deep with his mouth pressed to Stiles’ temple, less a kiss than it was a continuation of their embrace, another point of contact. His hand settled on the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing gently. 

“You smell good.” Not just like himself, but like their bed, like the particular honey sweetness he carried when he was at rest. He couldn’t imagine all the nuances to Stiles’ scent he’d have noticed if he wasn’t human; for his own dim senses, Stiles was already remarkable enough. 

“You smell like smoke and whiskey,” Stiles muttered, muffled against his chest. He made no move to pull away. “And Aria.” 

“Mm. We flew longer than I meant to; I wasn’t cold. It was a nice night for it.” 

“You were cold; you’re just drunk. Your skin’s freezing.” Stiles shifted higher, arms wrapping around his chest beneath his jacket. The tip of Stiles nose was warm in the hollow of his throat. 

“I’m alright; I'll warm up. It was a nice ride. Always helps me keep a clear head.” 

"And...is it clear now?“ 

“It’s fuzzy now. It was clear earlier,” Chris said. His fingers kneaded slow along the nape of Stiles’ neck, his thumb dragging along his spine, then the muscle he could feel alongside it. There was too much tension there. “That wasn’t the plan, but Peter thought I could use a stronger drink—I just didn’t disagree.” 

The noise Stiles made was small and soft, uncertain. 

“He’s interesting. He’s got a sharp tongue; I can see why you like him.” 

Stiles pulled back, far more quickly than he’d expected. The flash of copper in his eyes was there and gone so fast that in the warm light from the bedside lamp and with a buzz still in him, Chris wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen it at all. 

“What’d he say to you? If he was rude—“ 

“He wasn’t rude.” At a few moments, arguably he had been, but it was far too slight to feel like he needed to bring it up. It would have felt like tattling, like an easy road out. If this didn’t work, it wouldn’t be because he didn’t have thick enough skin. 

“He said something-” 

“I’m just saying, I see why you like him. He’s sharp. He’s pretty, too.” Somehow, when Chris said it, pretty sounded sharper. 

Stiles swallowed so heavily Chris could see his throat move. His hand against Chris’ chest went tight. He could feel the beginning of pinprick claws, just barely digging through his shirt, and breaking skin. He was so used to it, now, the sensation barely registered as pain. ”You’re upset,” Stiles said. The wounded tilt to his mouth went right to Chris’ gut. ”This was a stupid idea; I never should have said anything about Peter—“ 

“What, and kept it to yourself?” Entirely sober, he wouldn’t have said it. In the moment, he was torn between wishing he hadn’t, and feeling that it needed to be said, if only once, if only to underscore for both of them that it was a baseless fear. Stiles would have never cheated on him; he hadn’t lied in telling Peter he didn’t doubt it- the sharp hurt in Stiles’ eyes was nothing more than affirmation. 

“Yeah, completely to myself. I didn’t tell him I was interested in more until I talked to you; you know that, I would never—“ 

“I know; baby, I know. That wasn’t fair.” When Chris tugged, Stiles let himself be pulled closer again. The claws were still digging into Chris’ chest, but the angle wasn’t so sharp, and Stiles left arm slid around his waist again, under his jacket, under his shirt to lay against his back. “I know you would never. I know. I told Peter that. I trust you.” 

Stiles hand flexed against his chest, nails slipping out of his skin only to shift higher, and grip again, over his shoulder. ”Still, it was a bad idea. You’re upset, and I—“ 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.” Stiles sniffed, and Chris realized almost too late it was more a warning of the threat of tears than a check of his scent. Stiles’ arm around his back tightened, his face buried suddenly again into the hollow of his throat, so close Chris could feel the movement of his lips. “You are. If you weren’t- I don’t want you to feel like you have to get drunk to make yourself agree to this. If you have to be drunk to think about it, that’s too much.” 

Before he answered, Chris shook his head, slow and careful. The low noise he made after as he kissed Stiles forehead was less an answer than wordless comfort, but he was quick to correct him once he’d felt Stiles start to settle, the tension easing in his neck where Chris’ palm pressed. 

“I didn’t have to be drunk to think about it. I got drunk after, with Peter, by choice. If I thought he was a bastard and I couldn’t stand looking at him,” Chris said, soft and low, punctuated with a nuzzle against Stiles cheek. The scratch of his stubble along smooth skin was deliciously familiar, grounding like finding footing on solid earth after touching down. ”I could have left and come home to you.” 

“You can always come home to me,” Stiles whispered. His breath was warm against Chris’ skin, though there was a waver of uncertainty there that lingered. “I don’t want you to doubt it.” 

“I don’t—and I’m not upset—“

“You are, Chris, I can tell; don’t—“

To stop him, and redirect him, Chris kissed him. It was a little halting at first, a quick catch of his lips that didn’t deepen until he’d taken a breath, and done it again. When he did, Stiles let it take that second time, kissing him back first cautious, then stronger when Chris licked into his mouth, drawing him out. From there, it was easy to fall into the familiar rhythm of it, the give and take between the two of them that would ramp higher with the least provocation. In the midst of it, it was easy to turn Stiles, to back them both up until his back hit the door and he was trapped, held safe and captive between Chris’ chest and the solid oak of the bedroom door. 

Then, pressed close and breathing heavy, Chris caught his eyes, and tried again. ”I’m not upset, okay? If I am, it’s not like you think; it’s not enough to worry about. I can’t say I understand it, because I don’t. I look at you- and maybe it’s a difference in what I am and what you are, maybe I can’t really grasp how much time we have, but I look at you and I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine it.” 

“Chris—“ In just the one word, he sounded so pained that Chris almost stopped. He would have, if he hadn’t had too much to say. 

“Just hear me out, okay? Hear me out; let me finish—I’m not saying I can’t understand, just that right now, I don’t. But I think maybe I can, if you give me time to work on it- that’s all I’m asking. I’m not saying no- and I don’t think you should either. You brought this up for a reason; I don’t think burying it’s going to do either of us any good. Just give me time to try and wrap my head around it, okay? Give me time, and don’t expect me to love it right away—I won’t. I can’t—but I don’t hate it. It’s not impossible—and I think that’s a place to start.” 

Stiles’ breath came heavy, still, half from their kisses, and half from the pressure that had to be weighing on his chest. It was all over him, in the too-damp welling in his eyes, the way he wrapped his leg around Chris’ tight and hard, like he would have tried to anchor himself close with his tail if he’d shifted. 

“You can’t hate it,” Stiles said. ”If you do, if it gets that bad, you have to promise you’d tell me, because I can’t stand the thought of you doing something that hurts you because you think you have to, because you could lose me if you don’t- because that’s not what’s happening, here, that would never happen, okay? If you hate it, that’s it, we stop. You don’t even have to explain it; just tell me you hate it—“

“Hey,” Chris stopped him, punctuated with the distraction of taking his hands, and pulling them up, and out, until his wrists were pinned. It was always so easy to hold him, like he wasn’t stronger than Chris, like he couldn’t have shaken himself free in a moment if he‘d had the least desire. Instead, he settled in, and let himself be caught. ”If I have to, I will. I promise—and I want you to do the same. If this doesn't feel like you thought it would once you‘re doing it, I want to know.” It wasn’t as strong of a worry as others he’d had, but it had crossed his mind. Stiles’ was worried about pushing him, but he had worried, a little, about Stiles pushing himself. Chris breathed deep, his fingers flexing around Stiles’ wrists as he leaned in, kissing along the line of his jaw. ”Let’s try it and see what happens, okay? We won't know until we try it. That’s what I told Peter.” 

The soft sound Stiles made was almost hidden under his head knocking back against the door, tilted to give Chris better access. His pulse jumped at the flick of Chris’ tongue against it, his throat shifting as he swallowed. “Chris—“ It was almost a moan, almost distracted enough to lose the thread of conversation. “Peter agreed?”

Almost. 

Chris took his mouth again, deep and long. The shift and press of his thigh between Stiles’ did get him a low moan, hungry, swallowed up in his own eagerness. Still, Stiles didn’t pull with any real pressure against the hold on his wrists, and Chris kept him there, kissing him until their kisses turned breathless and sloppy and wet, until Stiles’ hips rocked in rhythm against his thigh, until his thigh muscle quivered from the effort of holding them both in place after so much time spent riding.

In the space of panting against each other there was something expectant in Stiles’ eyes, and Chris caved to it, nodding, continuing. His mouth was wet; his lips felt pricked and swollen from the tips of Stiles’ fangs. They had just peeked out, just a touch, brought out by the same intensity that had a ring of copper shimmering around his irises. 

“Peter agreed,” Chris murmured. His fingers flexed gently around Stiles wrists, slid up until they were holding hands, Stiles fingers molding to his grip like they’d been waiting. “This weekend. He’ll spend the night, and we can...see what happens. What he wants, what you want-“

“And what you want?” The question was firm, Stiles eyes bright and hard with it. “If you hate it—“

“If I hate it, we’ll stop and it won’t come up again; he’ll accept that. He knows it’s a trial run- but I think it’ll be alright, I do. We just have to try. Experiment.” If he hadn’t already known Stiles desperately wanted to try, he’d have known it then. He could feel the energy of his eager hope thrumming in him, just under the surface. He’d held it back when Chris came in, too worried to give it free rein, but now that tension had dropped, making room for a different kind entirely. 

Stiles licked his lips, his eyes fluttering at the taste. When they opened, they were fully changed, bright and beautiful, slitted and wild. “What’s out of the question? What would be too much?”

Chris shook his head, teeth sharp on his tongue until he tasted blood. He didn’t have a good answer- he had concepts, but none he was certain of. Nothing fully formed, only disjointed feelings, with his mind too fuzzy to trust them. At the moment, the thought of Stiles between he and Peter was hot, as an abstract concept. He would twist and squirm; he’d be loud. When they were finished with him, no doubt he’d be as boneless as he could be when he grew restless in the spring, brimming with fresh energy he wanted Chris to test. The thought of Stiles’ hand shaping to Peter’s grip as easily as he had for Chris, though, felt like too much, like acid in his gut. He could picture Stiles mouth on Peter’s cock, but not the two of them kissing. It was all a jumble of images and uncertainty, like a snarl of wire that was hot to the touch, burning him when he tried to unravel the pieces. 

He turned the question back to Stiles instead. “What have you thought about?”

“”I...” Stiles breath went shallow in the trailed off silence. One leg wrapped tighter around Chris, a determined anchor, as if anything he could say might make him back away.

Chris wouldn’t have it. His thigh pressed closer between Stiles’ legs, his nip sharp at his chin. “No, no you’ve thought about it. I know you have.” He’d seen it in his eyes the first time he’d talked about wanting more with Peter, known it for the very fact that he’d even brought it up at all- to want to make it a reality, Stiles had no doubt turned the possibility over and over in his mind until the edges were smooth. Worn pathways, ready fantasies. He had them; now he just had to be willing to share them. 

“Not as much as I think about this,” Stiles said. He leaned forward, and Chris tilted in to meet him, his rough cheek nuzzling against Stiles’ smooth skin, their breath just out of tempo before they kissed, and settled into cohesion again. 

There was part of Chris that wanted to preen at the reassurance, even if it was an offering Stiles felt he had to make, even if there were days or weeks it wasn’t true, even if he would have known with a clear head that on the whole, it absolutely was true.

Still, the quick burst of reassurance was real, and he let himself feel it. Later, he would let himself feel guilty for it, too. 

“You already have this,” Chris said. His kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth was almost chaste, soft and lingering and intimate. He could feel Stiles’ breath catch, feel the brush of their chests that came with it. “You have me, baby; that’s done. When you think about Peter-“ Chris kissed him again to soften them both, his teeth tugging gently at Stiles’ lip. “When you fantasize about him-“ There was still something out of body almost about saying it, but he had gotten the words out, and he didn’t feel sick. He was still hard; he didn’t feel the need to retreat. It felt like a small victory. “What do you think about?”

Stiles’ hand tugged against his. The pressure was still light, still a fraction of his strength, but Chris felt it, and let that hand go. Stiles’ hand raked through his hair, nail tips pricked just enough to make him shiver. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“We can talk about it now, too. It’s okay.” 

Stiles hand was on the back of his neck, his grip firm when he pulled Chris in. His kiss was deep, slower than before. He had to taste like whiskey, and Stiles didn’t care. His cock pressed against Chris’ thigh. His voice when he murmured against Chris’ mouth was low and rough, wanting. “Tomorrow. I’m not thinking about Peter right now.”

“You’re not, huh?” Despite himself, and all his reassurances, his heart still skipped of its own accord, like Stiles’ desire was something to hoard. 

“No. I’m not.” Stiles tugged his other hand free to take Chris’ jacket and shove it back, hands running all the way down his bared arms to chase it to the floor, back up to grip the partly open collar of his shirt. “Come on; I want you in bed. I’ll show you what I’m thinking about.”

“Not here?” Chris said, the curve of his smile pressing after to the soft slope of Stiles’ throat. He’d marked him there so often, even though it never stayed. His hands drifted down to Stiles’ hips, squeezing hard, thumbs slipping under his shirt. “You know you like it when I pick you up.”

“Yeah, but I like it better when you’re sober and we’re not gonna end up on the floor.”

“You think I can’t do it now?”

“I think there’s a large gap between ‘can’ and ‘should’. A gap big enough to fall in- and honestly it’d be hilarious but I don’t want to have to stop because I crack my head on the baseboard; that’s such a mood killer—“

Stiles laughter had already started to pepper his words, encouraged by soft nips against his throat, but Chris couldn’t help but join him, and for a moment the laughter took over. It felt good, loosening muscles in his spine he hadn’t even realized were still wound tight. 

Stiles’ hands splayed against his chest; Chris could feel the warmth of him through his shirt. “Come on. Get in bed with me; I want to ride you.”

Chris groaned, memories welling up so strong and immediate his dick twitched. Stiles was so rarely shy with his desires-it wasn’t in his nature. He was a collector, and he reached for his desires almost as hard as he did his things. Taking his pleasure from Chris, he wasn’t subtle— it would be decadent, sensuous, the stretch of his lean chest and long neck gorgeous and tempting and utterly available for Chris to touch and bite, so long as he let Stiles set the pace. 

Chris cursed under his breath, low and soft, all edges removed. They kissed again before Stiles insisted on getting him out of his shirt, again when Chris hit his calves against the chest at the end of the bed and stopped walking, again before he sat down to get out of his boots, once more once he had. 

It was so familiar— the wanting and the taste of him, the tug of his long fingers along Chris’ cock as soon as it was free, his weight settling on Chris’ hips in bed, the little sound he made when Chris cupped his ass and squeezed. With the trappings removed it could have almost been years ago, their rings and the leather on his wrist and the walls of their room and this house stripped away to take them ten years back, to Stiles’ bedroom in the house on the summit of Lookout Mountain, a quilt older than both of them combined drawn up over them to give them a cocoon against the world. Stiles had muffled his moans against Chris’ shoulder so often then, self-conscious in the echoing halls of his parents’ house. 

Now, he was shameless and eager; the slide of Chris’ fingers into his mouth wasn’t to quiet him but because he loved it. They laid above the covers, the warm glow of Stiles’ bedside lamp still on, bathing the two of them in muted light. It was all so clear, the brilliant gleam of his eyes, the shine left on his lips from suckling at Chris’ fingers, the heavy bob of his cock. The world had narrowed to the two of them, a private sanctuary Chris had been worshiping at so long it stung to remember a time when he couldn’t. His life before Stiles seemed an eternity away- he could imagine nothing after him.

The flutter and give of his body when Chris fingered him was equally familiar, and somehow different for that very reason- they knew each other so well, now. The curl of his fingers to rub and tease just inside the ring of muscle drew almost the same whine from Stiles it had the first time he’d done it, but he knew it was coming. He anticipated, and kissed him, felt the sting of those needle fangs pressing into his lip just enough to hurt but never in a way he didn’t like. 

Old pleasures continually renewed, undiminished by repetition. Even when he grew so used to this someday that it was innate, beyond second nature, he couldn’t imagine being bored; he couldn’t imagine ever having enough. There was rapture and wonder enough in this current between them that he could explore its’ eddies for lifetimes and still be drawn deeper. 

With another twist of his fingers, his name was gasped from Stiles’ lips, breathless and heavy. Chris sank into it, and let it pull him under. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. this thing that was originally going to be one solid piece is now officially three parts- but no longer than three parts lol 
> 
> Once I had been working on this bit for quite awhile, it just seemed to me that it worked better breaking here, and then finishing it up (*cough* with one other scene + porn) in a separate chapter. 
> 
> I've worked really hard both getting into this world and also trying to make this situation as emotionally realistic as possible and...idk this may change in 5 minutes, but I'm pretty happy with how it's turning out. I really hope you all enjoy it; thanks so much for reading.

Chris smelled coffee long before he woke up. It wove into his dreams, disorienting him— it was the kind of dream where he got up, kissed Stiles and got dressed, checked in on the animals, and poured himself a thermos for work. It all felt real, up until he was at the station having coffee with John— not out of his thermos, anymore, but out of styrofoam cups.

He was in the yard, leaning on Aria’s shoulder, sipping coffee—he was back in bed, waking up like rolling through molasses, kissing Stiles and trying to find his boots, making coffee—

He was on his back, and he opened his eyes to nearly pitch black dark. The bed beside him was cold. He still smelled coffee. 

He rolled over, groaning in anticipation of hangover symptoms that mostly didn’t come. He wasn’t dizzy; his stomach didn’t roll. His head didn’t pound, but there was a dull ache in his muscles like he’d ridden miles longer than he had. Dehydration, no doubt. He needed water. Instead, he sat up and reached for his coffee. 

It was steaming on his nightstand, though there was no telling how long it had been since Stiles put it there. He didn’t need to be able to feel magic to see that Stiles had given heat to the coaster he’d placed it on—it was glowing, still, a slow pulse to the sandstone he’d have missed if it hadn’t been so dark, or he wasn’t looking for it. The coffee was black, stark against the pale orange of the inside of the mug. It wasn’t his, but he knew it well— when he drunk the coffee down, he’d be able to see the swirls of grey on the paint made by the clink of the spoon in the pattern of Stiles’ fingers as he stirred in his hordes of sugar. They overlapped in wobbling ovals, strewn together with a few stray strikes feathering out. The wear didn’t make it any less valuable to Stiles— he would use it until it shattered, and then he would find a spell to fix it, or glue together the pieces, and find a new use for it. He’d never said it, but Chris knew. There was so much knowing that could come after a decade spent in learning someone else. 

His thumb traced the dunes along the front of the mug, the surface so hot it was hard to keep it flat. Around the curves, he felt the change in paint where the silhouettes of camels and palm trees marred the horizon, again for the word emblazoned in faint purple near the rim. _Morocco._

He had been flirting with Stiles for weeks before he took the trip—it seemed so long ago now, but he could remember John side eyeing him so clear. He hadn’t liked the thought of Stiles dating one of his deputies, and he hadn’t liked the thought of Stiles settling down. He’d known Stiles from the day he was born, and Chris had always assumed it was that insight that had let him see where they were going long before they were certain themselves. He could tell, maybe, that if Stiles sank his teeth into Chris, there would be no letting go.

The mug was simple, touristy. When he’d bought it, it hadn’t been a whim, really, but the meaning hadn’t been that deep. He’d been thinking only that he was ready to get back home and court Stiles properly, and that Stiles liked both coffee and bright colors. Everything he’d read about dating a dragon had taught him the best courting gifts related to the individual dragon’s interests, and were easy to hoard. It had made him smile, sure, but mostly it had been a practical choice.

The meaning had come after. It wasn’t just a mug, now— it was the unspoken _I missed you_ in that first moment when he pulled it out of his drawer to give it to Stiles right there in the office, with his dad watching while doing his best to appear not to watch through his cracked office door. It was the brush of their hands when Chris had handed it to him, the flare of Stiles’ eyes for the first time because of him, the eagerness in Stiles’ voice when he had asked if it was for him, even though it was already clear it was. His fingers had curled tight around the handle, knuckles white. It had reminded Chris of a kestrel grabbing prey; it was so damn cute it made his ribs ache. 

It was Stiles accepting it and saying yes to dinner on Wednesday, and by default and tradition, yes to Chris’ advances in general. It was the night that first winter they’d hiked up Raccoon Mountain with the mug wrapped in Chris’ shirt in their pack even though a tin cup would have been lighter, when it got too cold and Stiles was sluggish and cranky, but still told Chris when the Milky Way rose above them there was nowhere he’d rather be. If Chris drank slowly enough, focused enough, he could still feel the press of Stiles’ back against his chest, see their breath mingling into a white mist in the dark, cut with the rising steam from apple cider.

It was arguments in the kitchen like the stupid one they’d had over the backsplash when they were building, or the serious one about Chris’ promotion. It was the first morning they’d woken up in this room together after the house was finished. By mutual agreement they’d had breakfast in bed, and stayed in it after. The memories mingled, borne on the air around Chris’ hands like currents— the sharp snap of Stiles’ anger, the warm richness of his smile when he was utterly content. 

Chris was human. He couldn’t feel the history and heaviness in objects in the tangible, magical way Stiles could, but he wasn’t cut off from it entirely. He had imagination, and memory. He could understand how layers of lives could build onto the surfaces that touched them, like sediment. It would not be the same for any two things—the grandfather clock downstairs was different, as was the necklace dangling from the light switch for the fan they never used. He could understand the need to keep each and every piece, to leave no gaps in the knowledge, like a river gorge with each year preserved in the walls. 

He could understand, too, that Stiles shared nothing without purpose, not even with him. 

He sat the coffee down half finished to get out of bed, picked it up again once he’d pulled on his softest jeans and a black shirt older than Aria. He rolled the sleeves, left the front half open. The October sun was still warm enough for it—and Stiles liked it, the glimpse of his chest and the space at his collar to nuzzle against bare skin when Chris hugged him. 

When he pushed the heavy curtains open and squinted against the light, it was midday at least. He was sure of it, though the sky was grey and hard to read, and down in the courtyard Stiles already had a fire in the fire pit. From his distance and behind glass it wavered in silence, licking up from a pile of limbs and leaves. Close to the fire, along the stacked paving stones that marked its bounds, the white wyvern that was his husband’s truest form stretched to his full length, one wing tucked, the other dangling away from the fire to catch the sun. At just over 7 feet he was still small enough to almost look like a snake from a distance, if he’d tucked both wings in, and laid on his back legs. Small enough to curl around one of his mother’s horns, or his mate’s body. 

This little, they didn’t often shift around anyone who wasn’t immediate family. His venom was potent, and his jaws were strong, but both were nothing on what they would be in a few decades, the kind of power that came to mind with what he was. Wyverns became predators, but spent the first stretch of their lives living more like prey, bluffing behind their heritage like a bird puffing up its chest. 

The first time Chris had seen Stiles like this, the honor of it had left him speechless. Under Claudia’s sharp and watchful gaze he would have been a fool to be anything but gentle with him, but it never would have occurred to him—not even if Stiles had been a stranger, but certainly not with all that they already were. Chris had already loved him then, said it dozens of times and heard it returned, but it was an indescribable confirmation to meet the dragon he’d only ever glimpsed in pieces, and find that he loved Chris, too.

The memory was so clear—the first shy puff of breath against the inside of his wrist, the way Stiles’ eyes had narrowed then widened sharply at the familiarity of his scent. He’d reached out with the claws at the crest of his wings to grip Chris’ arm and hold him in place, drawing blood even as he rubbed his face along his forearm like a cat, a low and unfamiliar garbled clicking in his throat that sounded almost alien. 

He’d looked away only to glance at John, his eyes full of questions he couldn’t sort quickly enough to begin—not that it had mattered. The fond, exasperated resignation in his boss’ eyes had told him enough before he even spoke.

_Ah, hell. He thinks you belong to him._

_I do._

He wouldn’t say it at the alter for another four years, but he would have been ready to say it then. The answer hadn’t changed; it never would.

Coffee finished, Chris took the mug with him down to the kitchen, leaving it on the counter. The click of nails alerted him that Shade was out of his crate and up just before his face smashed into Chris’ knee, rubbing drool against his jeans. They’d lucked out so far that he hadn’t gotten the worst parts of his English Bulldog daddy’s genes, but he had drool for days. They’d be scrubbing it off the walls 10 years after his time ran out. 

“Hey, bubba,” Chris murmured to him so he didn’t feel ignored, but the hand he reached down to him was only half to rough up his wrinkles, and half to guide him backward when Chris slipped out the door and closed it behind him. The warbling whine and slap of his paw against the glass rang of betrayal, but Chris didn't stop. If he let him out, he’d be chasing him down once he got tired of catching falling leaves, and he wasn’t in the mood. His legs were sore from the lingering dehydration, and he and Stiles needed to talk—if he felt like talking, once he was human. 

Before he reached the fire, Stiles posture had changed—first to crack an eye, then to rise up like a cobra, waiting. The low, thick clicking that had sounded so alien to Chris at first sounded as natural and familiar, now, as a cat’s purr. It warmed him to be the cause of it, every time. 

Holding his hand out, Chris was met by the enthusiastic nudge of Stiles’ muzzle, the press of smooth cheek scales against his palm. The clicking rattled deeper when Chris ‘ fingers curved to fit along his jaw, scritching lightly. “Good morning, baby." 

In reply, Stiles changed pitch. His bright, copper eyes that stood out so sharply against his white scales were held half open, squinted and sleepy. Chris could feel the heat of the fire that had seeped into his skin. It radiated out of him, near fever warm against his lips when Chris bowed his head to kiss between Stiles' horns. The soft huff of his breath against Chris' throat tickled almost as much as the dart of his forked tongue, though both were too familiar to make him twitch. 

Whatever he smelled on Chris' skin, it wasn't quite enough—he rose up higher with an angry little chatter, his claws hooking into Chris' shoulders to give him purchase to squiggle his face back and forth along Chris' neck and open collar, spreading his scent until he was satisfied. 

Chris couldn't help but smile while Stiles couldn't see him, though the fond amusement lingered in his voice, too, when he rubbed the ridge of Stiles' spine and spoke to him, low and warm. "I just got out of bed; if I smell like anyone, it's you."

Stiles' grumble was all backtalk, punctuated by the barely-there nip of his teeth. Like Chris had known he would, he slithered closer, wrapping himself around his mate, going under his shirt to do it until his head was nestled back in the crook of Chris’ throat, the claws on his wings clinging at Chris’ shoulders in a pose that seemed half hug, half perching bat. 

The arm Chris cradled around his back wasn't needed for stability, not with Stiles' muscles, but he kept it there as he sat down anyway, his thumb stroking over the ridges on his spine, the joint where his wings met, up higher to the paper thin soft and tender skin of the frill around his neck, nearly flat with his calm. 

With so much anticipation in his gut it was a calm Chris couldn’t share, at first, but the pressure of the coils of Stiles' body around him anchored him, drawing him out of his head and into the sensation so well that for a moment, his nerves left him. He breathed in the scents of smoke and fall until they were breathing together, Stiles’ body rising and falling against his with the expansion of his ribs. 

Stiles’ trill had dropped to a low and rusty sound, his muzzle nuzzling here and there against Chris’ jaw, tongue flicking against the rough edges of his stubble. Chris traced the faint swirls of orange and brown and black hidden in the folds of Stiles’ frill, muted and barely noticeable until it unfolded, flaring out to full size should he need the pop of color as a warning. Young and impetuous as he was, Chris had only ever seen him give a warning once. More often than not, if he was going to strike, he did it without cues an outsider would have noticed, only a particular set to his neck, a readying of his jaw. Most baby dragons were unpredictable, but Chris couldn’t help but feel that some of it was just Stiles— animals that went around flashing their venom carrying status usually did it out of fear, or the desire to avoid a confrontation. 

As a dragon, Stiles was almost never afraid, not even when he should have been. 

Gradually, his fingers slipped just under the frill, its ragged, uneven edges brushing over his knuckles as he kneaded at the softer scales underneath. He could feel Stiles coil around him more tightly, then loosen, his back kinking briefly out like an inch worm. The rattle next to his ear ramped up, and Chris chuckled, turning his head to kiss Stiles’ neck, near the soft skin of his throat. 

“You just remember this when that heat lamp shows up, alright? He’ll be nice to sleep on, but he doesn’t know the good spots. Still gotta come to me for that.” It was easy to talk to Stiles, like this, easy to be a little sharper than he would be in a conversation. Stiles would remember, but it was always muted, like talking through water. The dragon didn’t really care about the words, just the intent, and how he felt about Stiles wasn’t something that changed. 

Still, he must have sensed a difference in him—maybe the way the thought of Stiles sleeping on someone else dragged at his chest, maybe the soft barb at Peter. His claws pressed against Chris’ shoulders, his upper body rearing back so he could study Chris’ face. The sleepy look in his eyes was gone, replaced with calculating curiosity, a vicious edge that threatened violence to whatever had soured his mate’s contentment. The click from his throat was all question. 

Chris cupped his cheek, and leaned forward until Stiles bumped their foreheads together. It was a little rough, the knock of his horns a little too hard, but Chris didn’t mind. “No, I’m alright; it’s alright. There’s no one to get— though I won’t lie, if you bite him or spit on him I won’t be sad about it, but _you_ might be. You like him a lot.”

In his mind, the memory came back strong of Stiles on the couch, pale and nervous, his hands clinging to Chris’ fingers like he needed to keep him from walking out. The thought that he might have honestly worried hurt in a wholly different way than the conversation had. 

“You really do. He’s important to you. We should give him a chance; you and me both—but I still say one little bite won’t hurt him. He’s tough enough to take it.” He couldn’t help but muse about it, even if they never got that far, even if he wasn’t sure what the wyvern’s reaction was likely to be. If Peter met the dragon, there was a decent chance he’d be just as welcome as Chris had been—and a chance, too, that because of Chris, he’d be vehemently rejected. 

As all over the place as his heart and head had been since Stiles had first talked to him last week, Chris shouldn’t have been surprised he didn’t know which reaction to hope for.

Stiles unwound in his own time, settling first into a heap in Chris’ lap before slithering down to get himself on solid ground. It had been an hour since he came outside, maybe more, but Chris hadn’t counted—the waiting had been a breath they both needed. While he shifted, Chris reached for the blanket they kept on the bench by the fire pit for exactly that reason, shaking it out before he held it up, and waited. When Stiles climbed back into his lap, human and naked, Chris wrapped it around them both with his arms over it to hold it in place, high over Stiles’ shoulders, draping over Chris’ sides and down to the ground. There were already bits of leaves stuck to the black plaid and in the remaining tassels on the ends from not long ago, a night they’d sat out and made s’mores. There had been nothing more serious to talk about then than Stiles’ passionate opinions on graham crackers, and the odds that the leaves would peak before November. 

Now, there was too much to say to know where to start. 

Chris took a deep breath, and tried anyway. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“You didn’t smell too hungover. I thought it’d be nice to wake up to.” 

“It was.” Chris nuzzled at his temple, kissing his hair. It was soft, still ragged from sleep. Part of Chris wanted nothing more than to carry him back to bed. 

Beneath the cover of the blanket, Stiles slipped his hand under Chris’ shirt, petting through the sparse hair on his chest, then pressing flat. He repeated it, slow and measured—the second time, the tips of his nails grazed across Chris’ skin, gone momentarily sharp before blunting again.

“Last night—I get that you weren’t upset enough to want to stop, but you aren’t totally fine with this,” Stiles said. His palm flattened over Chris’ chest, on the wrong side for his heart—feeling his breath, or his skin, or some intangible pulse of his own magic that Chris couldn’t feel. 

It was easier for Chris to shake his head when he wasn’t disappointing Stiles directly in his line of vision. “No. I’m not—but I said that. I’m working on it; it’ll take time.”

“Yeah, but I can’t help if I don’t know what you’re working on— I mean I know in general it’s a lot, but there’s something about it that bothers you. Maybe more than one thing, I just don’t know what those things are— if it’s me wanting to have sex with him or the fact that I haven’t brought him over enough just like, as friends, or how good looking he is—and I’m not saying he’s better looking than you because he isn’t; that’s not something I think at all, it’s just that Peter looks like he just walked off a movie set or something—“

Chris’ chuckle was soft, and real enough to surprise even himself. Trust Stiles to have found a sea of possibilities—he’d likely had them running through his mind since they’d gone to bed the night before. This morning, he’d probably shifted half for the sun, half to let himself relax from the circular pounding of his own worries.

“Don’t pull any punches, baby; how many reasons do I have to worry?”

“None! I’m just saying, there’s a lot you could be worried about, and I want to help—“ Stiles voice went higher, his shoulders twisting in Chris’ lap like he wanted to face him. 

Chris tucked him in firm against his chest again, and didn’t let him.

“I’m not worried about you wanting to have sex with him,” Chris said. It was, relatively speaking, not even hard to say. “And I’m not worried that I don’t know him. He’s your friend; I don’t have to know all your friends—I’m not saying he wouldn’t have been welcome in this house anytime, you know he would have been, but I don’t hold it against him that he hasn’t been here.”

“What do you hold against him?”

It wasn’t how he would have phrased it, exactly, but Chris couldn’t say there was no truth at all in it. His head tilted back, biding time by losing himself for a moment in the shifting grey expanse of cloud cover. An uneven V of geese crossed above them while he watched, honking their way south in a checkmark. Their familiar exuberance was soothing—there was a soundtrack to this time of year, in this part of the world, on their tiny little bump of land, and it played over and over again. 

There was peace in that repetition, in knowing that they would almost certainly not have a white Christmas, but Claudia and Stiles would watch the movie. Out front by the fountain the crocuses would bloom too early even for crocuses. Summer would almost always be hot, almost always come early. Whatever happened behind their doors, the life of the mountain would be unaffected. It would carry on as it always did, as steady as breath. 

Chris cupped his hand over the base of Stiles’ neck, squeezing gently—again, and harder, when he realized his eyes felt wet. It was stupid; he hadn’t lost a damn thing. There was nothing to cry over, and he didn’t want Stiles catching any distress—and yet, he couldn’t shake it, not entirely. Tightness lingered in his throat no matter how he tried to stretch it. 

“It’s not so much what I hold against him; I don’t know him well enough to hold anything against him. I know what you’ve told me, and I trust that that’s how you see him, but I don’t know him for myself. I don’t know if he’s good to you; I don’t know if we’ll always get along, but none of that is—it’s not pressing. I got along with him well enough when I met him. I’m not holding him to a standard he can’t meet. It’s not a grudge or an expectation, it’s more—“ Even saying it was harder than it should have been; so hard that he swallowed first. “Fear. It’s not rational, and I know it isn’t. It’s not logical. It’s not based on reality or anything at all other than visceral reactions. It doesn’t make sense, but I can’t just get rid of it. If I could, this would be easier.” 

Stiles fingers curled against his chest, his body curling in with it. Chris wouldn’t have thought it was possible for him to be smaller, to fit closer against his chest, but it happened all the same. His breath against Chris’ skin was close and warm, his face turned in against his collar, giving Chris space. 

“What are you afraid of?” Stiles whispered, though it didn’t feel fragile. It felt like a hand held out, an offer of stability. 

“I’m not saying it’s likely.”

“It doesn’t matter; say it anyway.”

Chris closed his eyes, his jaw for the moment clenched tight. Burying his face in Stiles’ hair he could smell the smoke on him, that same faint scent of honey he carried when he was content mingling with the scent of his shampoo. His chest hurt like the ache of bones before a storm, heavy and full of warning. 

“I’m not ready to give this up. I haven’t had enough time with you yet—and I know we have plenty of it, and maybe part of the problem is just how hard it is for my brain to wrap around that, but I can’t help that I think like a human. It makes me selfish, or I am selfish and it’s the excuse. I’m not sure it matters. I just love all of it—the life we have here, waking up and finding you outside like this—“ His throat felt too rough. Chris cleared it, and shook his head. “I’m not ready for that to change.”

Stiles pushed hard enough against his chest that he let him go, let him shift and cup his hand against Chris’ cheek, though Chris’ eyes stayed closed. Talking about this was hard enough; he wasn’t ready to look. 

“This isn’t going to change, you know that, right? You and me—“

“It’ll change, Stiles; something will. I said the same thing you did, and Peter—“

“I _knew_ he said something to you—“

“Hey.” Chris cut him off before his anger could build too high too quickly, his eyes snapping open to see that Stiles’ were already burning. Cooling him was as easy as catching his wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of it. It didn’t settle him entirely, but it pulled him up short, and that was all Chris needed. “Don’t be pissed at him; he’s not wrong. We can’t go into this thinking nothing changes; it will. That doesn’t mean it’ll be bad, but it’ll be different. It won’t be just you and me anymore. That changes something on its own.”

“Not between us it doesn’t,” Stiles said. Now that he’d gotten to know her, he could hear Claudia’s stubbornness in Stiles. There was a particular ringing firmness to it, like struck steel. “I’ll be spending a little more time with Peter; that doesn’t mean when I’m with you anything’s going to be different. It isn’t.”

Chris could refute him until the cows came home; he wouldn’t get anywhere—and it wouldn’t be productive even if he did. Stiles might be right, in the end. They might pull it off, the two of them as constants with Peter only becoming a new satellite, in an orbit of his own. 

Chris rubbed Stiles’ back over the blanket, kissed his wrist again, then his palm when it seemed to soften the slope of his shoulders. 

“You didn’t even let me get to the part that isn’t rational.”

“You already weren’t being rational,” Stiles said, low and grumbling, though he didn’t take his hand away. “But, go on.” 

Chris hesitated, though a pause couldn’t change what he already knew. He’d spent too much time thinking, over the past week, flying over the preserve last night, and waking up. Now that he was sober, and awake, he could string it all together. He couldn’t have given a fully comprehensive answer on how he felt for any amount of money, but he knew what he was afraid of. He’d be lying to himself to pretend he didn’t. “I’ve tried to think about how this could go, and I can handle some things— some of it isn’t even as hard as I expected.” 

Stiles nodded. His eyes were brown again, rich and deep and human. “And the other things?”

Chris’ throat stuck, and he swallowed against it. “I can think about you spending time with him; I can think about us having sex with him, or even you having sex with him, but when I think about him kissing you, holding your hand—“ Half voluntary, his arms around Stiles squeezed, quick and gentle. “Being able to come out here and pick you up and hold you like this…sex I can stomach, but I’m not sure if I can watch him touch you like he belongs to you. Because if he can, if he _does_, if he can do everything for you that I can, then how long is it going to be before he’s the better choice? On paper, he’s a better match for you; anyone could see that. Take away how long we’ve known each other and the fact that I work for your daddy and I don’t have much to recommend me—I know you love me; I don’t doubt that. I know you do, but to an outsider, this never would have made sense. We’re too different. I’m not only human, I don’t even have the faintest magic sense. Combine that with how old I was when you met me, and keeping me going has to take a hell of a lot more effort for your magic than—”

“Stop.” Stiles’ hand slipped to the nape of his neck, his grip so tight Chris could feel the prick of his nails drawing blood. The waver in his voice in just one word was strong enough that Chris didn’t dare mention it. The way he nuzzled against Chris’ cheek was all dragon—a little too firm, skin scraping hard against Chris’ beard. The sharp huff of his breath was the dragon, too; anxious and alert. 

Chris shushed him without even thinking, both arms wrapped tight around his back, his breath against Stiles’ skin slower, even and soft. 

It might have helped; it usually did, but it didn’t fully settle him. Heading off his questioning, Stiles flexed his hand, and spoke with his temple against Chris’, the words brushing against his ear. 

“Do you know what I’m afraid of?”

It wasn’t too hard to imagine, not when Stiles had talked about it before, not when he fretted every time Chris or John got hurt on the job. 

Not when he knew why Stiles had become a nurse. 

In the face of those memories, his own worries about obsolescence and being eclipsed seemed almost childish, but he didn’t want to regret saying them—they were real; they rattled around in his skull with the force of ricocheting lead. They weren’t rational, and he was struggling to get them under control, but they could do a number on him, and Stiles had asked. He had given him honesty, and he didn’t want to regret that—it didn’t mean he didn’t have other fears, and it didn’t mean the ones plaguing him were founded. 

Chris nodded, just once. “Yeah. I do—you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles had never indicated he didn’t like the reassurance, but it never seemed to have any appreciable effect on his fear, either. He was still tense, his eyes when he pulled back far enough for them to meet Chris’ still distant and grim, and odd urgency to them like the edge of a far-off panic. 

“When I was a kid, I wasn’t afraid of anything. There wasn’t anything to be afraid _of_; I thought—I mean mom’s _mom_, you know? I thought she could do anything until dad got shot. I wouldn’t tell her for the world, but seeing _her_ scared, that was the worst part. Anyone could have asked me if I thought there was something she couldn’t fix and I would have laughed, until that happened. When I was little, I thought people like us were never scared—now I realize she was probably scared all the time, at least when she's human, because I’m fucking scared all the time, because it doesn’t matter what I can do or how _powerful_ I technically am if I can’t—if something happens to you, or if I do something and the one constant I thought I would have for the rest of my life is gone and I can’t—“

“Hey, Stiles—“ Chris had murmured his name twice before he fully seemed to catch it, before his eyes closed, and he let himself be drawn back close again. He shifted to straddle Chris’ lap, the two of them pressed chest to chest so Stiles could feel him breathe, laid over the steady beat of his heart. Against his throat where Chris had tucked his face, Stiles breathed deep, taking in his scent, and Chris let him do it until he wasn’t drawing breath so hard it sounded painful, until it was easy. “None of that. I told you; I’m not going anywhere. Nothing’s happening to me, and I wouldn’t leave you. Not because of this, not for anything I can imagine. If something happens between you and me, we’ll work it out. I made you a promise; I’m in this. I might have a hard time wrapping my head around that much time, but I knew when I married you what I was agreeing to. I did it anyway; I’d do it again.”

Stiles was quiet so long Chris almost tipped his chin up, but he was patient. He waited, breathed in and out of sync with him until the fire was burning low, and he was on the verge of telling Stiles he needed to get up at least for a minute to tend it. 

“I think we should tell Peter not this week,” Stiles said. “This month, maybe, but not this week.”

“I’d be okay with—“

“It’s not just you—I’m not having second thoughts, not about wanting to try something with him, but if I do, it can’t jeopardize this, and that means we have to do it right. I think we both need more time to think about what that’ll look like at first—or maybe we don’t, maybe we just need to talk about it a little more, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now.” As close as they were, he could feel Stiles swallow. “I love our life too, you know. I want to keep it.” 

The feeling that spread from Chris throat down his spine was too complicated, too muddied to call relief. He could feel licks of individual bits of it, darting out around the edges—guilt and relief and reluctance, disappointment and worry and uncertainty. He could turn it all over later, in the air. In the moment, he pressed it all together, and nodded. 

“We can do that. No more talking for now; you bring it up when you’re ready.” His hand rubbed over Stiles’ back, smooth circles. “I need to get up and fix the fire.”

“In a minute.” Stiles’ head shifted more to his shoulder, resting heavy and easy. His sigh when Chris tucked the blanket high around them again was as endearing as his nuzzle against the worn cotton of Chris’ shirt. Overhead, another flock flew over, and Stiles fingers curled through the hair at the nape of his neck, petting. “This time of year always makes me think of that song—“

Chris knew the one before he’d even finished, as clearly as he knew what would come after. The warmth of knowing was such a welcome heat under his skin, a sudden spark of comfort. 

“I’m not your daddy; I don’t sing without music. You know that,” Chris said, honest, though the lilt of teasing was there, laced through beginning to end. 

“Please?”

“You want to go get my guitar?”

Stiles’ whine had him laughing, and soon enough, compromising. He didn’t sing, but he found himself humming the tune that John had played for Stiles a hundred times on his old Stella. It was easy, as often as he’d now heard John play it for himself, and out of Stiles’ music on shuffle in the car and in the kitchen. 

When he’d finished, Stiles didn’t let go, though the fire was lower and he was wide awake and a little shivery, silent and still nestled close. 

Chris held him, and let the fire die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, the song John used to play for Stiles that Chris knows is Old Tennessee by Dan Fogelberg ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> computer issues + new puppy combined to make work on this slow...and by the time it happened, it happened at such a snail's pace that it was driving me crazy. 
> 
> but...here is the final chapter. I nearly tore my hair out trying to get the tone to match the first two chapters and I’m still not sure I accomplished it but I’m stressing too much over it so time to just post it; it’s as good as it’s gonna get lmao pls be kind.

Most of the food Chris made wasn’t healthy. He’d never had a problem with that, working himself as hard he did for his job, but if not for Stiles it might have eventually caught up to him. As it was, he could allow himself the luxury of continuing not to worry, of still cooking the way his momma had. It was all comfort food, but there was an element of a gift to it, too— Stiles could never meet Dorothy Argent, but Chris could give him a glimpse into who she had been through what she’d passed down. Heritage and history left their own layers on a person, a different form of the cloak Stiles could feel on his things.   
  
Her apple pies had always been fried, mostly made by hand but made simpler by using biscuit dough out of a can. He could have made his own dough; he’d learned how, but there was something about doing the same motions in the same way, the stroke and rhythm of hitting the can on the edge of the counter, the slight jumpy twitch in his muscles he couldn’t fully control when it popped.   
  
Shade barked, every time, warbling and rough like a smoker’s cough. From his perch at a bar stool behind the island, Stiles laughed before he got down to shush him. His murmured comfort mingled with the wet lap of Shade’s tongue and the slight sizzle of the apple filling on the stovetop, the tacky stretch of the dough and the scrape of the chair across the floor.  
  
Chris didn’t realize how close Stiles had come until he was almost right up on him, bar stool dragged over and looking too tall next to the counter. Stiles draped himself over it backwards, straddling it with his arms crossed against the back, fingers tapping against the frame.   
  
When he opened his mouth, Chris expected commentary on the pies— maybe a complaint that they weren’t ready, maybe to ask for a few made extra full. A history of apple groves in East Tennessee, maybe, if his mind had wandered.   
  
“Peter can’t do everything for me that you can.”  
  
Even for Chris, Stiles was sometimes hard to predict. It had been over a month since they talked about Peter last, beyond Stiles’ stories about him from his day told after coming home in the evening. He had told Stiles that they’d talk about it when he was ready, and Chris had been happy to wait until he was, the whole concept shelved until Sties tugged it out again. There had been such a long stretch of waiting since that last talk, though, that Chris had gone complacent. It wasn’t the kind of topic he could forget, but it had settled into the back of his mind like a thicket, too full for searching, but always there, and firmly rooted. He had, honestly, expected Stiles to want to press the subject long before then.

He hadn’t expected it to feel different with distance—and it didn’t, exactly, but hearing his name out of Stiles’ mouth with such fondness didn’t sting. There was only a dull ache, a swift and sudden lump that carried a tinge of dread. It wasn’t too hard to laugh around.

“Is he a terrible cook?”

“I’m pretty sure he can cook but I don’t really know because he doesn’t really cook for himself—he orders out a lot and he eats with the guys at the firehouse or at the cafeteria at the hospital with me, or he goes over to his niece and nephew’s place—but I mean the point isn’t whether or not he can cook. I don’t really give a shit about that—I mean it’d be nice if he could, but what I’m saying isn’t that I need you for your mother’s fried apple pies, delicious though they may be.”

“I’m glad you have a few other uses for me,” Chris said. His smile hadn’t reached his mouth yet, but he could feel it at the corners of his eyes. “Just for that, you might get an extra pie.”

“I get an extra pie because you love me and I’m hungry; if I get more that’s like— an extra bonus pie, in addition to my extra husband pie.”

“There is no extra husband pie, but nice try,” Chris said. The smile reached his mouth, then, wide and easy. It felt good to banter with him, the normalcy of it stabilizing. “I’ll make an extra one for you to take to Peter because he’s never tried it, and your dad gets an extra so he’ll owe me next time I want to ask for time off. I have to plan ahead.”

“I take it back; you’re a cruel man who obviously doesn’t love me at all. Just for that—“ Stiles stretched his arm out, long fingers snagging at the edge of the wooden spoon Chris had been using to stir the filling. It rocked back and forth in the wake of his swipe, still settling when Chris reached over it to snag Stiles’ wrist, his mouth already open and ready to suck the filling from his fingers. 

Chris’ eyebrows rose, fingers flexing around his wrist. “What was that?”

“You’re mean and I love you even when you starve me?” 

“Better. Fortunately, I love you even when you’re a brat.” Chris let his wrist go with a last squeeze, his eyes mostly back on the cooking, though he couldn’t help but watch from the corner of his eye as Stiles sucked his fingers clean. As hot as it already was working over the stove, the extra pressure made his skin feel tight. 

“Does that mean I get an extra pie?”

“When do I not make you extra? You’re a bottomless pit,” Chris said, soft and warm. As much as he’d meant it when he said it a moment ago, by tone alone, he’d sounded more like an _I love you_ just then. 

“I know you do. You always plan for me.” Stiles, too, was more serious then, dramatics dropped. At a glance, Chris could see the earnest glitter of his eyes, the intensity of his focus. He was looking at Chris unblinking, like he was divining his words from under Chris’ skin. “That’s part of what I meant, you know? How we are, how this works—“

In gesturing toward him, Stiles reached far enough for his fingers to graze Chris’ bicep, and for a moment Chris pressed into it, letting them stay.

“It’s unique, it’s special, and it can’t be replicated, and it’s not because you cook for me or buy me things or know how to build a good fire or know how to handle me when I’m not human—though how much the other guy loves you is actually a whole separate argument, but let me finish this one.” 

Chris paused with his hands on either side of the dough he’d been stretching, listening.

“It’s how you do it; it’s who you are, and what that means for how _we_ are. If you break everything I just said down to...feeding and gifts and fire, Peter can absolutely do every one of them, but he’s never going to do them the way you do them. And I’m oversimplifying a bit here, but you see what I mean? You’re worried that if he comes in and does things for me I won’t need you anymore—“

Irrational as it was, he was worried about exactly that. Hearing it said brought a swift sting, sharp and hard. Based on the scrape of the chair and Stiles standing, it must have shown.

“—but that’s not true. There’s not ever going to be a time I don’t need you, _you_, specifically, because I didn’t marry you for heat in the winter and good sex, and I didn’t do it on impulse. I know that half the people at our wedding thought I was making a mistake because I was too young, but I knew what I wanted, and I still do. You’re my mate. I married you because— Chris, look at me.”

Chris looked, taking in the full brunt of the brilliance in his dark and almost wholly human eyes, only the faintest ring of copper at the center. There was such burning surety in him. Even the stubborn fears in the dark corners of Chris’ mind that he struggled to fight quailed under the force of it, shrinking until he could barely hear them. Stiles’ certainty was too loud.

“I married you because I wanted something concrete to match what I already knew—that we had to stay together, no matter what, because I can’t imagine doing anything without you. I can’t. I don’t want to. I married you because you make me happy; you take care of me when everything is shit—and it’s not the mechanics of it, it’s not what you _do_, because anybody could give me their jacket and tell me dad’s gonna be okay when he might not be. It’s not that. It’s just you. And even if Peter ends up filling a spot of his own I didn’t even fully realize I had until I met him—it’s always going to be you that has this one. Some things might change, fine, but that won’t be one of them. I know; I’m positive—I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”

It wasn’t really anything Chris didn’t know, not when he was thinking clearly, but that was exactly the problem with fear—it clouded, spreading a fog that could chill to the bone with doubts that had no roots. No one could banish it but Chris himself, and even he only had so much power— but it helped to hear it, as much as it would help to turn it over again in his head later, letting the echoes clear the air. With time and practice, he wouldn’t feel the threat of Peter like a cloud over his lungs, not if he kept himself focused on what he knew—

Stiles had chosen him, and he hadn’t done it lightly. Chris himself had questioned him enough before they married to be sure of that.

Chris shoved the filling off the eye, and turned to open his arms to Stiles. It didn’t surprise him that he was waiting; the tuck of his face under Chris’ chin felt so right that he could feel his lungs expand a little wider as soon as it happened. He nodded once, but it wasn’t his answer, not completely, and for that he shook his head. 

“I didn’t doubt you; it’s not _you_ that— you haven’t done anything—“

“I know. I just. I want to help. You always help me, and—“

“You are helping,” Chris said. His breath stirred over Stiles hair, and he dipped his head to nuzzle against it. He smelled like the hospital; the association for Chris had long ago ceased to be a bad one. “You are. We can work this out; it’s gonna be fine—you, and me, and you and Peter. It’ll all be fine.”

Nothing had changed, overtly, but saying it then, he believed it more than he had the month before. It was easier to take; easier still with Stiles arms wrapping around his waist, his lips pressing soft to Chris’ throat.

Time changed everything.

++++++

Aria heard the approach of an unfamiliar car long before Chris did; he could tell by the set of her wings, the angle of tilt to her head with her beak half open that she had when she was listening to something with particular intensity. It always reminded him of a carpenter with their tongue between their teeth; half the time, he couldn’t help but laugh at her, but he tried not to wound her precious pride. No matter what anyone who’d never owned a griffin would have said, he knew she had her dignity, just like he did.

The first sound of any significance from the front was the slam of a car door—there’d been no engine noise. More than likely he had something flashy with a magic fueled core, something imported and ostentatious. Chris got the eye roll out of his system, his hand rubbing rough and quick over the curve of Aria’s beak.

“Remember, he’s our guest. Don’t be a dick.” He meant it, mostly, but he was also used to being surrounded by people whose senses trumped his. He didn’t want to let himself show too much irritation and set off Aria hating him before they’d even given him a chance, but he wouldn’t be too upset if she made him a little nervous. He was on her turf; there was nothing wrong with a little healthy respect.

Chris turned at the sound of footsteps in the leaves, unsurprised that Peter had come around to find him rather than going in the front. He looked good- but then, Chris hadn’t expected any less. The grey leather jacket and stubble on his cheeks weren’t a surprise, either. Stiles had a type.

“Getting a good look at her in daylight, she’s bigger than Stiles makes her sound,” Peter said. If he was nervous, it didn’t slow him.

“She’s bigger than he thinks about. She adores him; to him, she’s no more dangerous than a miniature.” Around Stiles, she didn’t act it, either. She was a partner for Chris; for Stiles, she was a perpetual fledgling. He wasn’t as innocent as he could seem, but all the same Chris never wanted him to see her fight. Some illusions were best left unshattered.

Up close, the faint twist of Peter’s smile looked genuine. Outside, in the light of day, the flicker of fire in his eyes didn’t seem quite so alien. If Chris didn’t stare, they could have almost been hazel, almost been a mirror of the last of the leaves. Almost, but not quite.

He stopped a good five feet from Chris and Aria, unbothered by the low hiss rising from a predator that stood taller than either of them. “My grandmother had a miniature. He used to love playing with the pups. He never liked me as much. I always thought it was the lack of fur, but he liked my youngest niece just fine and she was human, so in retrospect—“ For such a painful topic, his voice was so soft, so light. “They’re very perceptive, aren’t they?”

It took no effort to feel sympathy for him, or for the kid he’d been. He’d spent the first long stretch of his life living a lie, and he hadn’t even known, but he’d clearly felt the difference, the disconnection of unnamed _otherness_. Chris couldn’t help but wonder if it had extended even to his mother; if she’d treated him differently, too, for reminding her of what she’d done. 

It was his own bias and history showing, but Chris couldn’t imagine growing up without a mother you could count on. If his hadn’t taken him and run when she did, there was no telling how his life would have turned out. 

“They are. It’s why she’s so good at her job.”

“Should I be concerned, then, that she doesn’t like me?” Chris was almost sure Peter was teasing, almost certain he wasn’t concerned at all—his face was just so even, it was hard to tell, hard to accurately read. 

Chris shook his head. “If she didn’t like you, I’d have called her down already. She doesn’t like or dislike you right now; you’re just a stranger. She’ll get used to you.” 

“I’ll have to find out how to get on her good side, then, won’t I?” Peter murmured. His eyes were on Aria, not Chris, as if the question was for her alone. 

Chris appreciated the respect enough to answer. “It’s not a bad plan, but bribery’ll get you nowhere. Just keep showing up, and don’t do any damage while you’re here. She’ll decide for herself— and I wouldn’t try to pet her until she does.”

“Yes. I like retaining use of my limbs without having to take drastic measures to restore them; I won’t rush her.” 

Again, his head tilt reminded Chris of Aria— moreso than before, even, now that he had them both nearly side by side. 

In the brief, hanging silence, Chris could feel the topic shift, like the pivot of a shadow. Peter’s eyes flickered to the house, then back, settling heavy, and calculating. Chris had to bite his tongue to not speak too soon. 

“Before we go inside, I wanted to ask again without Stiles—“

“I’m sure about this. We wouldn’t have asked you here if I wasn’t.” With all the space in between, though, Chris could see why he would wonder- it had been weeks longer than he’d first offered, weeks longer than Peter would have expected. Of course he would wonder. “I know this took longer than I thought it would, but we had to talk about it; we both needed time to think.”

“I’m not disagreeing; I’m just wondering if you’re sure you’re done thinking.”

“I know I’m not. I’ll still be thinking for months.” 

“And Stiles?

“You think _he_ isn’t sure?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just not entirely sure what he’s thinking- but I’m fairly certain he wants more than he’s ready to let himself hope for.” Peter’s head tilted back, looking up past the trees, now mostly bare and jagged against the brilliant blue of early December sky. 

Chris wondered if he was considering shifting, taking off into it, though he knew that was more likely to be projection. He could have used a flight to burn off some of his own sharp edges, but there wasn’t time. Still, he wondered how often Peter flew, what it was like for him when he did- if shifting was as easy for him as it was for Stiles, or if it felt ripped out of him, like a werewolf on the full moon. You could only learn so much from reading static biology— it wasn’t the same as knowing an individual, hearing their own description of their own experiences. 

Maybe someday, Peter would tell him what it felt like to fly without a saddle, not in the the halting bat-like flutter of a dragon, but soaring. If Aria could speak, he’d have asked her a long time ago. 

“Peter.” Chris’ own softness surprised him—Peter, too, if the sudden shift of his gaze back to Chris was any indication. “What was it about Stiles? I know—I’ve heard all about what he sees in you, and I know what you told me, how you feel about Stiles, but before that, when you met him—he stood out.” That much, Chris was sure of—and not only because of his own bias that would have had him noticing Stiles anywhere. Peter didn’t seem the sort of man to give anyone the time of day who hadn’t already captured his attention.

His eyes went back to the blue above them, like he saw something in it Chris couldn’t. Maybe he did; maybe he was buying time. 

“I could argue a pretty little thing like him would stand out anywhere—but I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“It is if that’s all there is to it.”

“If that was all there was to it, I could have found myself a pretty little thing that took less effort,” Peter said, his gaze dropping to meet Chris’ again. 

For a moment the fire in his eyes flared, and Aria’s wings matched it, popping out high and wide, her beak clacking hard once before Chris reached back and tapped it hard with the flat of his hand. “Hey. Knock it off; I can handle him.” The sweep of her wings stirred the air so forcefully Chris could feel her lasting irritation- she didn’t fold them, either, but kept them almost as flared, ready to take off or strike forward. Either she didn’t think he had it under control, or that little glimpse of his true nature had been enough to properly unsettle her and set her against him. 

Across from him, Peter had a near mirrored stillness, a quiet readiness that broke only with the huff of Chris’ breath. It wasn’t laughter, not properly, but letting it out took a weight off his shoulders. 

“I’m not asking you to tell me what you think I want to hear. If you don’t want to tell me the truth, tell me to fuck off. Knowing what it isn’t tells me enough; I can respect that. I know this isn’t about how he looks; if I thought it was, I’d have said no.”

“And if I tell you to fuck off?”

“Then you keep it to yourself, and we go inside.” Chris nodded toward the house. More than likely, Stiles was watching them from the kitchen, unseen from this distance. He might even be listening. “Come on. We should go; I’m sure Stiles—“

“It wasn’t one thing,” Peter said, loud enough to stop him, still even and smooth. “He had an opportunity to pry, and he didn’t. He owed me nothing and had no reason to go out of his way for me, but he did. That was interesting; it would have been even if I hadn’t already caught enough glimpses of him to realize he’s terribly underestimated and underappreciated— he’s brilliant at his job; with his mind he could have been a doctor. With what he is, he could have been a general, but what did he choose? A _nurse_. He didn’t do it for the easier schooling and he’s working his ass off for money he doesn’t strictly speaking even need if the stories about just how much Claudia’s hiding in that mountain are to be believed- and he didn’t do it just for the compassion; he’s good, but no one’s that selfless and he isn’t that boring. He likes being the hero just as much as you do; he just does it in a different arena.”

He _had_ asked, and all in all it wasn’t a bad answer, but hearing Stiles broken down so quick and sharp and easy like that rankled something in him, like a cat rubbed backwards. He couldn’t help it. “Maybe he’s more selfless than you think.”

“Please; it wasn’t an insult. He’s sweet, and he’s genuine—but don’t kid yourself; he gets something out of it. There’s no shame in that.” Peter's eyes flicked toward the house- maybe hearing Stiles, maybe only on the instinct to seek him out. It was impossible for Chris to be sure. “He was interesting, and I love when people are interesting. Most people aren’t.”

“If you really believe that, you aren’t looking close enough.”

“Fine. Most people aren’t interesting _to me_. Stiles is. That’s why he stood out,” Peter said. He hadn’t backed away from Chris and Aria, not a step. Whatever else he had within him, the man clearly had nerves of steel. “I’d ask what you saw but I doubt it’s question you planned to answer for yourself.” 

“It’s not an answer that takes any planning.” It also didn’t feel like Peter’s business- but with what Peter was here for, the realm of what _was_ his business was ever widening. It was on the tip of his tongue to answer anyway, to talk about the days when Stiles’ coming to bring John lunch had become the high point of his day- until Stiles was bringing _him_ lunch, too. 

He could try and explain to Peter how it had made him feel, eating out back with Stiles on a picnic table so old nature was slowly but surely reclaiming the concrete, Stiles sitting on the table rather than the bench, cross legged in his scrubs. His smile could make the shittiest mornings evaporate like they hadn’t left a dent—he could have put that to words, if he tried, but the very thought felt like flaying open his skin to give Peter a glimpse of working nerve and muscle underneath. He had the words, but it felt too close. Stiles might be ready to let Peter in; Chris wasn’t. 

“Come on,” Chris said, nodding toward the house again. “He’s waiting for us.”

“Lead the way.” Like so much about him, the sweep of Peter’s arm skirted right on the edge between needling and respect. 

“No; after you. She won’t like it if you’re behind me.”

Before following Peter, Chris turned to smooth the feathers along Aria’s cheeks, over the crest of her head where she felt so much softer than her piercing eyes made her look. His reassurances for her were wordless and soft, and still he felt her eyes on his spine all the way through the door and inside. 

Whether the tension in his neck on the walk up into the courtyard and to the doors belonged wholly to himself or in part to the anxious hiss his griffin had still been making when he walked away, Chris couldn’t be sure. She was perceptive; Peter wasn’t wrong about that—typically, he could trust Aria’s judgments without question. On any other day, with anyone else, it would have meant something to him to see her react to a visitor that way- a shift from her typical aloofness to the urge to snap within just a few minutes. 

Typically, he didn’t have his own bias for her to read. That perceptiveness that made her so good at her job meant that more than anyone else, she could read Chris like a book- if she could sense nothing from Peter, she’d still react to him if Chris made her feel like she should. For all the progress he’d made, he’d told Peter the truth—he wasn’t done thinking. He might not be for a long time. 

++++++

It was no easier than he had expected to see Stiles kissing Peter— there was a clench in Chris’ chest at Stiles’ eagerness that didn’t ease. It lingered, constricting his breath until it felt shallow, but it didn’t seem quite right to call it pain; it wasn’t sharp enough. It was more a heightened awareness, strange and vaguely unsettling, unable to be ignored. The way Stiles clung to Peter’s jacket was jarringly familiar in a way that soothed unnamed concerns even as it left him cold—he’d known already how much Stiles cared for Peter, but it was another thing entirely to see it, hear it in the catch in his breath when Peter pulled him in close to kiss the no doubt ragged pulse in his throat.   
  
It would hurt Stiles to give Peter up after this, if it came to that. He hadn’t said it outright, but when they’d talked about the parts of this Chris would find hard, Chris had heard it in his voice as clearly as he could see it now.  
  
_I’m okay with starting with sex; that’s fine, but I can’t do that without kissing him. I can’t be that detached; if that’s too much for now then— maybe we should try to start somewhere else._  
  
Nowhere else had seemed right, in the end. A date would have been harder for Chris; sex without Chris there would have been harder for both of them. Having Peter over and making no real steps toward a change in their relationship after they’d already opened that box would have been too awkward for everyone—the tension had to break, and Chris didn’t doubt this was the gentlest way to do it. He hadn’t doubted it when he and Stiles had gone over and over the plan, and he didn’t doubt it in the moment—it wasn’t unbearable, but it did feel at first like the stretch of a new muscle, like holding his breath past the point where his lungs first started to burn.   
  
Stiles loved this man—if anyone could judge well enough to see it, Chris would know. It was in the way he smiled when Peter’s hand slipped under his shirt, the possession in his fingers when they stroked through Peter’s hair. The soft _holy shit, Peter_ he gasped out when Peter bit down hard on his neck was shaken in a way that didn’t just come from the pleasure of it—Chris knew. He’d heard it before.  
  
That same drive he always had to see Stiles happy couldn’t help but react, and that made the whole experience even stranger—nothing he felt matched together. The cold, tight feeling in his chest didn’t fit the soft pleasure of seeing the person he loved more than anything in the world happy; the nervous tension in his spine didn’t fit with the warmth in his gut that came with hearing Stiles moan. He was a mess of disparate pieces— if Stiles had asked him how he was just then, he wouldn’t have begun to know how to answer.   
  
It made him grateful that they’d started like this—Chris in the soft, oversized chair in the corner where they usually read together on quiet days, the ottoman pushed aside to clear the space between the chair and the bed, and opening the space between the chair and the door. He’d kissed Stiles before he sat down, but he’d wanted to give Stiles and Peter time to find a rhythm together, and time for himself to let the reality of it all settle in. He didn’t feel settled, but his hands on his jeans and the worn fabric of the chair weren’t white knuckled, and his stomach didn’t clench.   
  
He would take those as progress, signs that this really wasn’t impossible to bear—not hearing Stiles moan, and not even seeing him push Peter hard up against the door like he couldn’t get enough of him, breathing so hard and heavy against him that the sound carried. Peter’s hands were in his back pockets.   
  
Despite himself and all of it, Chris’ cock twitched. He knew what it felt like, holding Stiles like that, feeling the initial involuntary tension at being grabbed so intimately fade into welcome, and pressing into his hands—the same way he could see Stiles pressing into Peter’s hands, his hips arched back, body still leaning forward to take kiss after kiss.   
  
Chris had thought that eventually, after he’d watched until they were progressing, after they’d all found a little steadiness, he’d get back up and join them, and guide them to the bed. He’d considered a kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck, hands on his hips or up his shirt—  
  
He hadn’t counted on Stiles preempting him, but his only warning before he made a move was the sight of him whispering in Peter’s ear far too low for human ears. If he’d been less secure, it might have worried him—but then, if he’d been less secure, they wouldn’t have been ready for this at all. He did have certainty, even if it felt now and then as thin as bone china, it was still strong. He could handle a few unknowns without the press of any new added worries sinking in, but still, there was a burst of startled pleasure in his chest at the realization that Stiles had slipped out of Peter’s arms, and was coming for him.   
  
Stiles smile was slightly swollen, the tips of his fangs just barely visible. He’d almost certainly already pricked Peter with them, too eager and hungry to be overly careful.   
  
Mirroring that smile was automatic, as easy as wrapping his arms around Stiles to hold him tight.   
  
Stiles molded onto his lap with fluidity Chris had never experienced in anyone else—the way he moved sometimes was almost as boneless as the dragon could seem, the curves and twists of his spine a little too deft to be human. It was so associated with Stiles’ unique eagerness that Chris could feel his cock stirring before Stiles even pressed all the way against him—though it didn’t fill quickly enough for Stiles to fail to notice that he hadn’t been hard when Stiles sat down.  
  
Chris swallowed his soft, concerned sound with a kiss before he could say anything, hands coming up to cup his cheeks and keep him close. He tasted strange, like Peter; the novelty of it was bizarre, but Chris couldn’t deny the flare of heat in his belly. He was tasting a man he’d never kissed for the first time on his husband’s mouth; the eager press of Stiles’ cock against his stomach was largely due to the efforts of someone else, and yet here he was, clinging to Chris, grinding down against Chris like he was already getting desperate.   
  
Chris squeezed hard at the nape of Stiles neck, his thumb rubbing a slow, firm circle. It felt so good to feel him shiver, to hear the catch in his breath when Chris’ mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Behind his shoulder, he could see Peter close by, sitting on the ottoman and taking off his shoes.   
  
He would hear them well; there was no doubt.   
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yes. Fuck, yes; are you—“  
  
Chris shushed him softly, nuzzling against his ear until Stiles’ could feel it as a nod. As soon as he felt him relax, Chris bit down gently on the curve of his jaw, sucking until Stiles whimpered, and Peter cursed. He worried at the skin until Stiles was tugging on his hair, rhythmic and needy, as eager to hold him there as pull him away. When he was satisfied it would last at least minutes, he kissed the mark with wet lips, teased with the rough scratch of stubble just before he murmured against his skin.   
  
“Is his mouth as hot as you thought it would be?”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Chris could see Peter go still, listening. He wasn’t like Stiles’; his lines rigid, not smooth. Chris could see the muscles in his back, and the image flashed in his mind unbidden of how he might look fucking into Stiles, the stretch and pull of power under his skin. They moved different, but he could see in both of them the same coiled power, like they held just barely too much to contain, bleeding out around the edges.   
  
He wasn’t with Stiles for what he was and he never had been, but he’d be lying to himself not to acknowledge that there was something about the prospect of all that power that hit him in the gut.   
  
Stiles nod was quick and short. As tight as he gripped the back of Stiles’ neck, Chris could feel the flex in his muscles as he swallowed. “Hotter. He tastes so fucking good, too, and his scent, it’s like—it’s not like yours, but it reminds me of—it’s so good. He tastes like nothing else.”   
  
“Yeah?” Chris kissed him, and tasted the hint of Peter again- strange and new, heavy on his tongue in its unfamiliarity. “If you try it again, maybe you can tell what he tastes like.”  
  
Catching Peter’s eye was all it took to bring him back closer, but though Stiles full body shivered at the touch to his back, he didn’t pull away—not for Peter’s hand, not even to lean back and kiss him. He stayed right there, pressed against Chris, turning just his neck so Peter had to fit in close. They were so close that Chris could feel the puffs of breath between them as they kissed, hear the wet sounds of the two of them learning each other through give and take. He could see flashes of tongue, feel the jerk in Stiles’ hips when Peter made a sound that was a little soft, a little surprised.  
  
Likely, he’d found the fangs.   
  
If he focused on Stiles’ pleasure, on the fingers curling tight in his shirt and the jut of his cock against Chris’, it was easier.   
  
Chris leaned back just enough to put a little space between them, enough to rub Stiles belly under his shirt and draw his glazed copper eyes back to Chris, even with Peter's mouth trailing along his jaw, kissing over the bruise that Chris had left. Already, it was softer purple.   
  
“What do you want right now, baby?” Chris asked. They had talked about every bit of this, what might happen and what definitely wouldn’t, but they hadn’t wanted to make it rigid, too preordained. They hadn’t wanted Peter to feel like an activity- and he wasn’t, _this_ wasn’t, but going in without a clear objective left a wide stretch of possibility. They were walking on new ground. “Don’t think about it; just tell me.”  
  
“You look—seeing you watching me—“ Stiles shook his head, and kissed him. His fingers on the buttons of Chris’ shirt while he moaned into Chris’ mouth felt like coming home after dinner, tipsy kisses against the door, fucking in the foyer like newlyweds because they didn’t want to wait. Once he got the shirt half open, Stiles pressed a hand to the bare skin of his chest, and broke the kiss.   
  
Behind him, Peter had nudged Stiles’ shirt up, his hands rubbing at his back in a rhythm that had Stiles arching forward and pressing back, and still it was Chris he looked at, catching his breath.  
  
“It’s fucking hot, kissing Peter and knowing you’re watching,” Stiles licked his lips. The flush on him went down past his collar already. “And I want more of that, but right now, I want to get on my knees for you and suck your cock until you aren’t thinking so much.”  
  
It was more than tempting—Stiles would go to his knees for him the minute he nodded, and he could imagine how that mouth would feel. Hot, and wet, and already a little swollen. When he finished with Chris, he’d look used, and Peter would want to have him even more than he already did—  
  
And there, Chris’ thoughts caught, hanging up on something that maybe shouldn’t have bothered him, and maybe was harmless, at least for now.   
  
He didn’t want to be first, to be half out of it and coming down when Peter fed his cock into Stiles’ mouth and kept him on his knees. He didn’t want Peter’s taste on his tongue to be the last he had before he came.   
  
Chris rubbed his thumb over the swell of Stiles’ lip, leaned forward to catch it between his teeth. His baby whined for him as readily as he ever had, soft and high. The twitch in his thighs made Chris hold him tighter.   
  
“You know how much I love your mouth, baby,” Chris murmured.   
  
Peter’s sharp and sudden laughter wasn’t harsh, or entirely surprising. “He does have quite the mouth on him, doesn’t he? You can’t imagine how he’s teased me with it—”  
  
“I haven’t—” Indignant, Stiles interrupted, though Peter kept going.  
  
“Not on purpose— at least not until recently.” Peter leaned in to kiss Stiles on the heels of his denial, slow and deep. The spread of his hand along Stiles throat was a little more firm than it had been at the door, a little more demanding. When the kiss broke, the glimpse Chris had of the fire in Peter’s eyes was fiercer than he’d seen it, glittering and foreign. “Do you have any idea how much you stick in your mouth while you’re working?”  
  
The fond exasperation in him startled a laugh out of Chris, because he could see it; he knew. Too many times he’d watched Stiles making a list at his desk, pen held so far between his teeth that it couldn’t help but draw attention to the way his mouth wrapped around it.   
  
When he put in effort to tease Chris, he was worse.   
  
Chris squeezed at Stiles hip, just firm enough to catch his attention. “You heard him; you’ve kept him waiting already. I don’t doubt it.”  
  
“Chris—”  
  
“Hey, shh,” Chris leaned in, taking a kiss to stop Stiles’ continued protest in its tracks before he could start again. “I’m fine; it’s fine. I was going to ask you to wait. It’s perfect.”   
  
Slow, giving him time to resist, Chris tangled his fingers in Stiles shirt, and pushed down, away from his lap, and toward the floor. It didn’t take much for him to slide under the pressure.   
  
“Go on. You know you want to; I want you to,” Surprisingly, it didn’t even taste untrue. “I want to watch you suck him. I’ve thought about it.”   
  
“Shit, really? You—”  
  
“Really. You don’t know how pretty you look with a cock in your mouth.”   
  
For all the reassurance, it wasn’t until he kissed the back of Stiles neck that Chris felt him relax, just before he looked for Peter. Sitting down like he was, the angle would have been easy— but Stiles had thought about this, too, undoubtedly far more than Chris ever had.   
  
His tug to Peter’s pants was insistent, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Stand up. I want you to— against the wall, yeah?”  
  
Peter stood so slowly Chris wondered for a moment if he wouldn’t. Before he touched Stiles, he shed his shirt. When he cupped his fingers under Stiles chin, the touch was firm; Chris could see it in the flex in his arm.   
  
“You _have_ thought about this.” It wasn’t a question.   
  
“I’ve thought about a lot of things,” Stiles whispered. The wet sound of him licking his lips was just as soft, and still carried. “But yeah, I’ve thought about catching you when you just have a few minutes before you have to head back out, pulling you into a break room and sucking you off. I’ve thought about that.”  
  
Before today, they had talked about Stiles fantasies. Chris hadn’t heard that one, specifically, but he’d heard enough to blunt the edges. At the back of his mind, Stiles voice rewound and played back, soft and urgent.  
  
_I’ve thought about him, but that doesn’t mean I would have done it. It would have just been a fantasy, if it wasn’t okay. I need you to believe that._   
  
Chris believed. He had, before, and he still did then, watching Peter feed his cock into his husband’s mouth, inch by inch. He started it so easily, so readily, unzipping his own jeans and tugging his cock out, red and hard and thick. If Stiles could take it all, the width of it would be a stretch for his jaw, but it wouldn’t bump as far down into his throat as Chris could.   
  
There was a dash of pride in that; Chris couldn’t prevent it. He shifted in his seat instead, the heel of his hand pressing for a moment against the front of his jeans. Stiles needn’t have worried that it took him time to get hard, at first— he was there, now, and it wasn’t fading, not even with Peter talking to Stiles as he worked his way in.   
  
“That’s it; you can take it— you love it, don’t you? Having me fill your mouth? Open wide, sweetheart; that’s it—” His thumb pressed to the hinge of Stiles jaw, nudging it open a little further, thrusting a little harder. The stretch of Stiles mouth around him was obscene; the little desperate clicks of his throat as he swallowed and relaxed in a too quick cycle.   
  
Too hot, Chris unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, and cast it across the arm of the chair.   
  
Catching the movement, Peter’s eyes flickered to his. There was a strange current in the connection— the two of them locking eyes with Stiles between them, struggling on Peter’s cock, Peter’s hips still moving.   
  
Chris had asked nothing, not even with his eyes— he hadn’t even moved to stand, but Peter nodded all the same as if he had, his fingers going tight in Stiles hair to pull him off his cock.  
  
“Your husband’s watching us; I think it might be best if you share— ah, I didn’t say to look at him, he’s fine.” At the twitch in his neck, Peter had held tighter.  
  
How he felt about that was something Chris would have to dissect later.   
  
“I’m fine, Stiles.” He said it loud enough to be sure Stiles could hear him clear, standing up when he did. It wasn’t far, just a few steps and then his fingers found the back of Stiles neck, squeezing it hard. “He’s right; I was just watching. You look gorgeous.”   
  
The urge tingled in his hand to peel Peter’s fingers off Stiles’ skin. He let himself feel it, and let it pass. Instead, he brushed his hand against Stiles cheek, and he turned his head like it was reflex. The low, rattling click in his throat when he breathed in against Chris’ wrist was all dragon. The clench in Chris’ chest was every bit as strong as the throb in his cock.   
  
“Chris, let me—”  
  
“Yeah, baby. Go on.”   
  
Rather than feed his cock to him like Peter had, he let Stiles take it out, all eager fingers and heavy breath on his dick through his boxers before he even got started. His eagerness had its own charm, and Chris moaned when Stiles got him free, and immediately took him deep. It had to have hurt, and still Stiles just moaned around him, soft and eager like he’d had a craving sated.   
  
Almost as quick, he pulled off, panting. “Chris, fuck, you smell—Jesus, you smell so good—”  
  
“Because I’m yours,” Chris said. Whether he wanted to hear it, or thought it would do Stiles good to didn’t matter. There was heat in his chest, and Stiles was nodding, and taking him in again, head bobbing.   
  
Sharing with Peter didn’t feel so unnatural, not when he was right there, cock hard and wet with Stiles’ spit, stroking it slow while he waited until Chris pulled off, and held Stiles hair to guide him to turn. There was an illicit thrill in it that shot up Chris’ spine like a bolt, how it felt to tilt Stiles head just right, to hold him there to help him get his bearings when Peter started to thrust.   
  
Being close but without the distraction of feeling it himself, the details were all so crystal clear— the bright red flush along Stiles neck, the swelling of his lips, the low hum rising from deep in his chest that Peter had to be feeling.   
  
It was messy, and beautiful; it fueled his urgency when he next had Stiles mouth back on his own cock, taking him so eagerly he could feel the bump of his throat on each pass.   
  
When he was close, Peter pulled out, his hand quick on the base of his cock, stroking hard. “Stiles?” He needed no more clarification, and still, Chris was both relieved he asked, and surprised. For all the filth he’d spoken to Stiles while they’d passed him between them, the weight in his question and the cup of his hand to Stiles’ cheek held something else.   
  
Stiles shook his head only once, a tinge of something in his eyes that might have been regret, or might have been something else entirely. “In my mouth. Here; I’ve got you—”  
  
Leaning in, Stiles closed his mouth over the head of Peter’s cock and sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing as Peter came with a strangled curse.   
  
It was in Stiles eyes, afterward, that everything was open to Chris— he could mark him in the way that Peter had wanted to, and been denied. He could do it in front of him, and make a statement— or he could fight down the clamoring possession, and do what he most often preferred.   
  
He loved Stiles mouth, and just then, it was wrecked. It was a temptation too great to pass. Chris tugged his thumb along Stiles lower lip, baring the tips of his fangs. Breathless and playful, Stiles nipped, not breaking the skin, though it would have been so easy to.   
  
His cock ached, and Chris gave in, nudging his mouth open wider. “Come on, baby, swallow for me— fuck, that’s it—”   
  
It took only sheathing himself once in Stiles mouth to lose control, his cock spilling down his throat. Having already taken Peter, and with his jaw sore from their use, he couldn’t hold much of it, come dribbling down from the corners of his mouth.   
  
When he’d finished, Chris pulled Stiles to stand on shaky knees, and licked his baby clean. 

+++++++

More often than not when Chris held him, just like he did when Chris pinned him, Stiles didn’t struggle. His magic and otherness might creep out from him here and there, but he didn’t flaunt his physicality; most of the time he didn’t even use it until it served him. He _liked_ letting Chris flip him over, liked being pulled back against his chest or put on his knees, aligned into place, the illusion of powerlessness against hands he knew would never rise against him.  
  
Chris could get drunk on that kind of trust.  
  
With his knees, he nudged Stiles’ legs open wide where he sat on Chris’ lap in the chair, his legs then hanging on either side of Chris’ own. It kept him from getting traction, limited his ability to thrust. Trapped against Chris chest, he wriggled back against him, and cursed when the band of his arm tightened. He had to able to feel the burn in his thighs, already tired from so much time spent on his knees.  
  
“Fuck, oh fuck—“ His litany broke off with a sharp gasp as Peter reached forward, cupping the bulge of his neglected cock through his boxers.  
  
Peter hummed, as nonchalant in how slowly he went to his knees as he was when he leaned in, breathing deep along the line of Stiles’ cock. He hadn’t even touched him, and still Chris saw a burst of precome further wet Stiles boxers, his cry high and needy.   
  
“Peter, Peter, please—”  
  
“Begging me already? You are easy, aren’t you?”  
  
“I sucked both your dicks and I’ve been hard since we came upstairs; give me a fucking break and—”  
  
Chris turned his head for a kiss, unsurprised at first to be rewarded for cutting him off with the sting of teeth on his lip, dissolving into an eager whine when Peter had mercy on him, and tugged the band of his boxers down to free his cock.   
  
He was never going to last; he’d been waiting too long. To his credit, Peter didn’t tease, and it was a good thing— with how hard he already was and the heat of Peter’s unfamiliar mouth, Stiles was coming moments after they’d gotten him settled, whimpering so hard it almost sounded like pain.   
  
Almost.   
  
At any other moment it wouldn’t have seemed possible, but with Stiles on lap and his come in Peter’s mouth, when Peter reached for Chris as if it was expected, kissing him didn’t seem too much to ask.   
  
He tasted like Stiles, and Stiles hadn’t been wrong— the heat of his mouth wasn’t normal, but that was as it should be, for what he was. Peter wasn’t normal; the entire situation wasn’t normal—but the reverent catch in Stiles’ breath was all the confirmation Chris needed that he hadn’t stepped too far.   
  
Still, when he pulled back, his jaw feeling strange from the stretch of moving his mouth to someone else’s rhythm, Chris rested his chin on Stiles shoulder, and asked   
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yeah; God, yeah.” Out of breath, Stiles nuzzled against him heavily, uncoordinated. “That’s okay. We’re okay.” 

It both was and wasn’t about the kiss. The rest was in his softness, the relief in his sigh and in his eyes. Hearing it, the last bit of tension he’d held eased from the base of Chris’ spine, like slow evaporation.

+++++++

Before it happened, Chris had thought that he wasn’t sure if he could stomach Peter sleeping in their bed. He’d told Stiles that; they’d discussed it. They’d agreed to the guest room— but that was before.   
  
The reality of it all would be settling for days— how Stiles had looked at Peter, how it had felt to taste his husband on another man, how Peter had kissed Stiles at the end, his thumb rubbing gently at the hinge of Stiles jaw. He’d been so slow about it that it had taken Chris a moment to see the purpose, until Stiles sighed and the kiss stopped and Peter kept rubbing while they breathed against each other, and the reality was clear— there was heat in his fingers, soothing away the ache.   
  
It was real, it had happened, and it still felt, at moments, as if it had happened to someone else. A dream he might have had, or a dream Stiles had. With his eyes closed, they might have been lying in bed after a nap talking about it, voices hushed for no one but themselves, the background noise nothing but the faded click and hum of the heater coming on, and going off.   
  
With his eyes opened, Peter couldn’t be missed— he was right there along Stiles’ back, pressed almost as close as Chris was to his front. With his face hidden in Chris’ neck, breathing against his collar, Stiles was already asleep, but even in the dark Chris could see the glimmer of Peter’s eyes.   
  
Someday, that might not seem so strange. Someday, it might even be comforting.   
  
In resting his hand on Stiles hip, his arm brushed Peter’s, and for a moment neither of them breathed.  
  
“I can go,” Peter said. “Home, or to the spare room; Stiles had told me—”  
  
“Stay.” Chris’ voice sounded rusty, which didn’t seem fair. Of the three of them, he was the only one who hadn’t abused his throat. “Stay, but let’s not talk about it.”   
  
The quiet was incomplete. He could hear Peter’s breath, just like he could hear Stiles’. There was no rhythm to it; it didn’t match. It was out of place, and off tempo. Sometime before dawn, Chris fell asleep to it anyway.


End file.
